


God Helps the Outcasts

by fire_sprite



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Architects, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Taverns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2019-11-06 08:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17936468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_sprite/pseuds/fire_sprite
Summary: After the burning of Paris, Quasimodo, Phoebus, and Esméralda try to find their place in the village, rebuilding both the cathedral and their lives. As their friendship develops, the three find solace in each other, and something new begins to form. How well will love survive in these three?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The previous writers of HoND fanfiction inspired me to write my own take on Phoebus, Esméralda, and Quasimodo's relationship after consecutively watching The Hunchback of Notre Dame six times. Thank you for your work!

Phoebus de Châteaupers liked to consider himself a straightforward man. He’d naturally establish a goal, such as becoming the Captain of the King’s guard (a title he was surprised at himself for letting go of so quickly), or perhaps obtaining information out of an unwilling witness, and soon enough he would achieve it. As it had happened in the barracks, he had assumed, it would happen in real life as well.

But, as his father would always say, “man plans, God laughs,” and so He had laughed. Phoebus had overcame any problems in his first year in the barracks with manual labor and a quick nap, and if that wouldn’t solve it, he had thought, nothing would.

Phoebus’ second year in the barracks, seventeen and only slightly less brash than before, had led to some questions. Questions involving quick glances, changing stalls and his battle companions―questions better left unanswered, and they were soon pushed out of his mind by real war.

So perhaps Phoebus hadn’t _always_ been a good, straightforward man―proved indeed by the events of the past month, burning of Paris and all―but he had at least tried to be, and that counted for _something_.

-

Esméralda rarely needed things, no, most of her life she had been able to keep herself in check whenever she began to yearn for something―usually too expensive, or the merchant wouldn’t sell to a gypsy. In yearning for some _one_ the routine applied as well―there were no exceptions. Phoebus had the privilege of being the first she’d ever felt she could make an exemption for. In other words, her first love.

Although she’d never tell him. He’d lord it over her for the rest of her life. Phoebus wouldn’t resist a blatant opportunity to tease her.

But as of late, she’d begun thinking that, perhaps, there was another exception. The thought scared her, not in who he was, but that Phoebus would misunderstand if she were to tell him, that he would leave her.

Esméralda was so tired of her words being twisted that she almost gave up on the prospect of telling Phoebus her feelings altogether. She would tell him later, she vowed, when they weren’t busy, when Paris was rebuilt.

-

Quasimodo, however, tried his best to keep his feelings to himself, now that Esméralda and Phoebus were involved. His feelings wouldn’t help anyone, and it _certainly_ wouldn’t help the newly developing bond he was forming with the two of them. If his heart was heavier, well, it was something that came with being human. Something that he could find solace in the church, anyway, he was sure.

The closest thing the church had offered him was the ninth commandment, _thou shalt not covet your neighbor’s wife._ It never offered a guide on what happened if _thou coveted_ his neighbor _and_ his wife. Archdeacon Dupin was busy helping the architects reconstruct the cathedral, and frankly, Quasimodo wouldn’t want to embarrass himself in Confession anyway.

Phoebus was aware Quasi was in love with Esméralda―it wasn’t like he had tried to hide it at first, although Quasi would have traded anything to not have shown it at all―but he was being a surprisingly forgiving friend for it. Perhaps Esméralda had convinced him to take mercy on him, although, personally, if it was switched, and without knowing Phoebus the way he did now, Quasi would have sent him away.

But the past was the past, and he tried not to cling so much to history now. He, Quasi resolved, would make a supportive friend to Esméralda and Phoebus.

* * *

 

“ _These_ are your friends?” Phoebus blinked. The gargoyles eyed him with varying levels of disgust.

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy. I’ve been alive longer than your entire bloodline,” Laverne shook a bony finger at him.

“Yeah, don’t think because you’re _human_ means you’re any better!” Hugo shot at him. Victor looked like he was about to reply as well, but backed down and assumed, instead, a quite literal stony expression.

Phoebus, still looking like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes, walked slowly around the statues, looking them up and down like they were the only thing in the bell tower.

“This is incredible,” he finally admitted. “I thought you all were a… vision I’d had while injured here.” Phoebus paused, then tried to ask, “Is it…?” he searched for words, but no science nor magic he knew of would explain.

“We’re just as surprised as you are, Captain,” Victor said, the only one choosing to address Phoebus with some form of respect. “Er―ex-Captain.”

“Please, just call me Phoebus,” the knight grinned a sort of awkward, shocked smile, and shook his hand.

“Yes. Well. If you can find an explanation, please inform us as soon as possible,” Victor bowed politely.

Phoebus suddenly stiffened. “Are all the statues in the cathedral alive?” he said, looking suddenly alarmed.

“No, no,” Quasimodo reassured. “Only these guys.”

“Though they make enough noise you’d think the rest talk, too,” Laverne scoffed. The other two immediately dissolved into argument and Quasi hid a smile behind his hand.

“Don’t think about it too much,” he quietly advised Phoebus, who looked at the squabbling sculptures, frowned, and nodded.

“Well, if that’s all you wanted to show me…”

“Oh! No, I have something else,” Quasi left the arguing group and looked back to see Phoebus trailing behind him, taking in the tower. Phoebus likely hadn’t been well acquainted with it before getting shot, and Quasi was secretly pleased he liked the decorations put up around the inside.

Phoebus oh’ed once Quasi pulled the curtain back to reveal his little workshop, bathed in jewel-toned light now that the sun was hitting the strings of glass just right. Phoebus turned in a wide circle, admiring the illuminated room.

Even though the workshop was mostly centered around the town model, Phoebus took the time to look at the miniscule details, the way Quasi had so carefully stitched simple designs in the green drapes hanging from the walls, the way the room had clearly been scrubbed before his arrival, the way _property of Quasimodo_ was engraved in the benches and other furniture inside. Even the musty smell Phoebus didn’t seem to mind―until he sneezed loudly and scared Djali, who had been chewing pensively on a wooden sheep.

Quasimodo shooed Djali out of the room and to who knew where, and turned back to find Phoebus’ face still full of wonder, although the shocked look had subsided to an emotion Quasi couldn’t quite place.

“You made all of this?” Phoebus asked, awe still remaining in his voice. Quasimodo nodded, suddenly shy. Phoebus brushed his fingers over the strings of glass, swinging the light about the room, before crossing purposely over to Quasi.

“I think you should join the architects on the Notre Dame project,” he said seriously. Quasi’s eyes widened.

“Really? You think they―they’d let me help?”

In the current restoration of Notre Dame, he was only helping with the rough work now, hewing stones and carrying beams, but he would have loved to do more for his Notre Dame. The bell tower may have been his prison, but Quasimodo had vowed he would remake it into something he wouldn’t be afraid of.

“Who else has spent twenty years in the bell tower?” Phoebus’ eyes sparkled. “You know this place inside and out!”

Quasi’s stomach began to flutter with both excitement and anxiety at the prospect.

“I’m not sure,” he began, hedging, “maybe I should―”

“Quasi,” Phoebus leaned in, clapping his hands on his shoulders. He locked eyes with him. “You’re perfect for this job. I think you could do Notre Dame a _lot_ of good this way.”

Quasi searched his face for any sort of mockery, any joke to be played on him, but nothing in Phoebus’ expression betrayed him. If anything, Phoebus looked fully confident in his recommendation.

“Okay.” Quasi said simply. “I-I’ll do it,” his face broke out into a grin.

“Yes!” Phoebus let go of Quasi and beamed at him, making Quasi’s face go aflame. He stood back and walked around the room one last time. “We can talk to the architects tomorrow. I’ll―”

“‘We?’” Quasimodo repeated. Phoebus stopped pacing behind the table.

“Of course! Me and Esméralda and you. We’ll all go together!” Phoebus seemed entirely too giddy for the occasion, but Quasi took it in stride.

“If you say so,” he laughed. Perhaps a recommendation from a knight, a war hero at that, _would_ raise his chances at becoming a contributor. Phoebus, finishing his pacing, joined him at the front of the workshop, and flinging back the curtain to re-enter the main bell tower, found Victor and Laverne standing idly by while Djali chased around Hugo, who was shrieking madly in an effort to disarm the goat.

“Don’t bring the goat next time.”

* * *

 

Quasi trode back and forth nervously, his arms swinging at his side. He was outside the cathedral, waiting in the sunlight for Esméralda and Phoebus to join him. It was a sunny day, which seemed to bear good tidings for the meeting ahead of him.

He looked around the square, still marveling at the scene. Paris was as normal as it could be after the burning―people scuttling around the signs of destruction, leading their children in and out of stalls, stacking precarious amounts of groceries in their arms.

Quasi slid down the wall to sit on the cobblestones, warmed from the sun, and sighed, trying to calm his nerves. It was days like this that made him smile, that he could be among the people and have them treat him indifferently, or, as Phoebus and Esméralda insisted he should be treated, a hero. The two would often fume when a villager wouldn’t give him, in their words, the respect he deserved, but Quasimodo didn’t mind as much as they did. He was just happy to be one of the Parisians.

Clacking hooves trotted into his view and he looked up to see Achilles. Quasi grinned and patted his neck as Esméralda dismounted from the saddle with the help of Phoebus. Achilles snuffled Quasi’s hands for a treat, but he shook his head.

“Sorry, Achilles. Not today,” Quasi said kindly. Achilles snorted in protest, and he directed his attention to the two. “How was your ride up?”

“Good, good,” Phoebus glanced at Esméralda, then swallowed, looking nervous. “Um…”

Phoebus busied himself tying up Achilles at the nearest water fountain, giving a child a gold coin in exchange, presumably, for looking after the horse, then, dragging his feet slightly, returned.

“Quasi, do you want to have lunch with us?” Esméralda asked, hands fidgeting over her bracelets. “After you’re done meeting the architects?”

Quasimodo opened his mouth to respond, but just then, the door of the cathedral opened behind him with a heavy creak. The man in the doorway looked curiously at Phoebus and Esméralda, then refocused his gaze.

“Er, Quasimodo? And…?”

“These are my friends,” Quasimodo gave him a smile and a firm handshake. “Phoebus and Esméralda.”

Phoebus nodded at him, while Esméralda waved. The man blinked.

“I see. Well, if you all can come inside…” he ushered them into the cathedral, and the three followed him through the halls, where a few broken stained-glass windows could be seen, and up a wooden staircase, creaking under their every step. Quasi noticed his friends looking around with interest―Esméralda, in particular, glanced out of every window they passed, examining the view. Quasi thought back to the night he had showed her the view on the very top of the cathedral, the sky painted in bright colors, and smiled. He’d have to show them the other viewing points as well.

The staircase ended abruptly at a heavy-looking door, iron decorations curling around the handle, and the man they were following pushed it open with some effort, leading them into a room Quasi only barely recognized as Frollo’s office. He had rarely been allowed in, and it was clear that most of the personal effects of the deceased judge had been pushed to one side of the room, or haphazardly shoved into boxes.

The large room offered a dusty red carpet leading up to the desk, which had been pushed to the center with two other tables flanking it, creating a larger workspace―likely pulled from Notre Dame’s storage room, where old furniture and pews were put aside for luncheons and the sort. Heavy black curtains were pulled from the two tall, cross-hatched windows behind the desk, which revealed the bright blue sky and cast most of the light in the room. It fell on two other figures in the room, who looked up quickly as they walked in.

“Quasimodo, Sir Phoebus, Esméralda… these are the other two architects working on Notre Dame,” the man gestured. “Monsieur Jean Carrel and Madame Hildegard Pichard.”

The latter, a striking woman in a simple green dress, rolled her eyes at the man, and walked up to give Quasimodo a warm handshake. “Only Hilde. _Madame Hildegard_ was my mother,” she scoffed.

“And I, only Jean,” said the man perched by the window, in an accent Quasimodo couldn’t quite place. Jean leaped lightly onto the floor and swept over to give Quasimodo a kiss on both cheeks, his dark hair falling into his face. Esméralda and Phoebus exchanged a look behind Quasi. “Gilet _loves_ to make us sound more important than we are.”

“Gilet?” Quasimodo asked, confused. Hilde tilted her head, then she whipped around to the man who had led them in.

“Gilet, you didn’t even introduce yourself!” she said accusingly. Gilet sighed and turned to Quasimodo.

“Gilet Girardot, at your service,” he said, shaking Quasimodo’s hand for the second time. “I apologize for not letting you know who I was earlier, because _we had more pressing issues to discuss,_ ” he directed the last part of the statement to Hilde, who shook her head disapprovingly. “Now, you said you have some blueprints you’d like to share with us?”

“A-Actually, they’re sketches,” Quasimodo took the neatly folded papers out of his pockets and unfurled them, taking care not to smudge the pencil marks. He spread them out on the table, crinkling the paper, while the three architects crowded around the plans, eyeing them with curiosity. Even Esméralda and Phoebus looked over his shoulder, though they had both seen the plans before.

“The glassblower who made the windows passed away years ago, so we would need to either try and restore the original windows, or commission new designs,” Quasimodo pointed to rough drawings of the ideas he’d had, ranging from nativity scenes to intricate rose windows. Some of the vignettes were accompanied with swatches of paint on the pages, normally meant for his wooden figures, but serving as the proposed stained-glass colors instead.

Soon enough, the architects stopped looking skeptical and started looking impressed. Perhaps it was the scale at which Quasimodo planned for the building in such a short time, or how well he knew the architecture and how the cathedral would be able to handle renovations, but either way, Phoebus and Esméralda could sense that Quasimodo would be a great asset to the team, even if they could barely follow the builders’ jargon at some points.

They watched as Quasimodo had gained confidence with the others, his eyes lighting up as he spoke excitedly, and smiled at each other. Seeing Quasimodo in his element like this was truly inspiring, and it gave them hope for the future as well as for him.

After an hour, the architects wrapped up the discussion, determining that while Quasi’s original designs would be useful in the project, they still needed to be refined, and Hilde and Jean especially seemed interested in Quasi’s mention of a town model in his workshop. They planned for a meeting in three days, under the assumption it would be enough time for each of them to expand on their assigned portion of the restoration of Notre Dame―Hilde had the outside pillars and architecture, including the gargoyles; Jean was operating on the infrastructure; Gilet oversaw the project and communications with the Archdeacon and clergy; and Quasimodo was to decide on internal design, including new decorations in the event of those totally destroyed.

Quasi was given kisses on the cheek by both Jean and Hilde this time, and a very hurried handshake goodbye by Gilet, who soon rushed off to another part of the cathedral, trailing papers behind him. He left the cathedral beaming, with Esméralda and Phoebus in tow.

“Quasi, that was amazing!” Esméralda congratulated him, bringing his hand up to loosely interlace with hers, giving his hand a squeeze before dropping it. “I never knew you knew so much about the cathedral!”

“I have to admit, it _was_ impressive,” Phoebus clapped him on the shoulder, his touch lingering. “All that mumbo-jumbo with measurements was really something.”

“It _was_ nice to finally put my experience to good use,” Quasi admitted, his gaze faraway. “All of them were so nice.”

“Yes, Hilde and Jean were certainly… fond of you,” Phoebus looked ahead, searching the village plaza, and found what he had been looking for. He nudged Esméralda. Her face brightened once she saw the tavern up ahead, clearly relieved to leave the subject of the two affectionate architects behind.

“So, Quasi, as we were saying before… lunch?” she gestured to the building. Quasi looked surprised they had remembered, but smiled at both of them.

“I’d love to,” he said sincerely.

* * *

 

 _The Rose and Lattice’s_ customers and barmaids alike bustled around the group, crowding what little light there was. Smelly tallow candles lit their booth, and looking around, Quasimodo understood why Frollo had denounced taverns, bars, and places of drinking so thoroughly. The building was packed with the drunk, the disorderly, and the discomfited, all clamoring to be heard above the racket. Thankfully, Phoebus had managed to secure them a place somewhat secluded and situated far enough from the main part of the bar that they could hear each other.

Esméralda and Phoebus were right at home, although the former had excused herself to visit the washroom, but Quasi was experiencing some secondhand embarrassment at the frankly outrageous behavior of some of the _Rose and Lattice’s_ inhabitants. Phoebus caught him looking at a barmaid and a customer heading upstairs and shook his head.

“Don’t think too much about it,” he said, trying to seem offhand, but Phoebus’ faint blush gave him away.

“Phoebus, you were saying you were brought here as a _child?_ ” Esméralda continued the previous conversation as she returned from the washroom, wiping her hands on her purple sash. She sank down into the cushion nearest the wall, next to Phoebus and opposite Quasimodo.

“Well―not _the Rose and Lattice_ specifically,” Phoebus admitted, nostalgia creeping into his eyes. “ _The Saint Julian_ was something like this, although it had… uh… fewer drunks and more priests.”

“A _priest_ would come to a place like this?” Quasimodo asked, trying to hide his scandalized look. Phoebus shrugged.

“I wasn’t really focused on the priests as a boy. There were more interesting things to look at in there, anyway.”

“Like what?” Esméralda raised her eyebrows, a smile playing at her lips. Phoebus’ eyes unconsciously flicked over to the barmaids and his fading blush deepened again. He cleared his throat, stumbling over his words, when thankfully a barkeep walked past, flinging the menus onto their table. Esméralda snickered.

“Oh, good, they have cider,” Phoebus said, burying his face in the menu, with far too much relief in his voice to be directed at a drink. Quasimodo peered at his menu, frowning as he made the words out. He couldn’t tell what all the words were, but most he could identify, to his consolation.

“Phoebus…” Esméralda softly said to him, staring at the menu. “What’s on here?” she asked quietly, uncharacteristically embarrassed.

“Hmm?” Phoebus looked over, then, registering her question, took one side of the menu and murmured the options. She smiled, grateful for the assistance, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you… I think I’ll have the leeks and rye,” she nodded decisively, gaining back her confidence. Quasimodo, glancing back down at his menu, was still deciding between the oysters or the herring when the realization that he didn’t have any _gold_ hit him. He opened his mouth to inform them of this predicament, but Esméralda must have sensed this, because she winked and raised her arm to reveal an unusually heavy-looking bag at her side, clinking gently.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for you. Dancing was good today.”

“Your dancing is _always_ good,” Phoebus and Quasi immediately said in tandem, making Esméralda laugh.

“It keeps bread on the table,” she tilted her head, referencing Quasi’s first concerns about her dancing.

“Actually―I haven’t heard about you and your, uh, bread in a few weeks. Are you still living at the inn?” Quasi asked. He’d offered the cathedral to the two multiple times, but they’d declined. Esméralda didn’t feel at home the way he did there, and Phoebus didn’t want to give off the impression to the Archdeacon that he was using Notre Dame as a bed-and-breakfast. Both were understandable, but Quasimodo missed them.

“Well, yes―but we’re saving up for someplace new,” Phoebus explained. “The living quarters Frollo assigned me are only open to soldiers, and since I’m not the Captain anymore… I had to make do.”

“And the Court of Miracles is destroyed now,” Esméralda continued, a pained look on her face, “so I couldn’t stay there even if I wanted to.”

Quasimodo was also under the impression that Phoebus, after learning Esméralda slept on the streets, had invited her to live with him as soon as she was able. Anyone would have taken the offer, and he was deeply grateful to Phoebus for taking care of her, but he couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. But _he_ had had a roof to sleep under all his life―it was selfish to want them to himself as well.

A ruddy-haired barmaid decked in a greasy apron and an apathetic look swept up to the table, interrupting his train of thought. “May I take your requests?”

Phoebus raised a hand, ordering a mug of cider and venison, then gestured to Quasi to continue.

“The oysters, please,” Quasi added, checking the menu one last time to make sure it was the cheapest thing he could order.

“And for the gypsy?” the barmaid looked Esméralda up and down, ever so slightly sneering.

Esméralda sat up straighter, stiffening her shoulders, and turning her gaze icy. “ _I_ will have the leeks and rye,” she leaned slightly towards the barmaid, “but we can always take our business somewhere else.”

The barmaid looked like she wanted to shoot back a reply, but settled for throwing a glare at her and sauntering away. Esméralda glowered at her back until the barmaid was indiscernible in the crowd.

“Looks like our food’s going to be taking a while,” Esméralda shook her head, then looked at the two of them. “But―” she seized upon a topic, “―oh―Phoebus, tell Quasi about the new tricks Achilles has been learning!”

Phoebus’ eyes lit up with excitement at the name of his horse, choosing not to pursue the current incident, and he launched into a monologue detailing Achilles’ latest activities. The lengthy explanation included both the tricks he knew and how they applied to “horse psyche,” which Quasimodo and Esméralda could both honestly say they had never thought about before. The closest they had really come to the subject was perhaps goat psyche, and never had they researched it so fervently as Phoebus had seemed to do with his pet. Even if Esméralda had wanted to research the engrossing mind of a goat she couldn’t have―being illiterate, indeed, took its toll in subjects like these.

The conversation eventually shifted back to the local taverns once their food arrived, and the three happily dug into the meals. Quasimodo reflected as he ate.

Though oysters were generally eaten by the peasantry, Quasi associated the food with comfort, on a rainy day where Frollo, being unable to obtain the bread and vegetables he normally provided for lunch, had left him instead a basket of oysters and a rare chunk of lemon, then rushing off to attend to some urgent business. Quasimodo had spent a happy afternoon at the fireplace, eating the freshly caught shellfish and making his way through a book he’d then recently discovered. The book, _Les Petit Inventions,_ had long been since worn out, but the poems inside still brought him as much joy as they had when Quasi had first discovered them.

A yell cut through the air, and Quasimodo was brought to his senses as icy cold water splattered over him. Wiping the water off his face, he spotted a soaked Esméralda getting up, her fists clenched, and Phoebus, who was shaking his head like a dog. Looking over, Quasi saw the barmaid from before, carrying a now-empty water jug close to her chest. The part of the tavern nearest them went quiet, the people looking over at the source of the noise.

“An accident, miss. I tripped,” the barmaid curtsied, her every word dripping with scorn. Even with her face down, Quasi could tell she was smirking. Esméralda stepped over Phoebus, wet hair hanging over her face.

“I _demand_ an apology.” Esméralda’s words were simple, but it was clear she was furious.

“Well―I don’t think one’s needed, _miss._ It’s only a little water.”

Even the tavern’s customers looked shocked at the blatant show of disrespect.

“You have mistreated me as a guest. I think what I’m asking for isn’t hard to give,” Esméralda retorted.

Through the crowd, a portly, irritable-looking man shoved his way to the front. “ _Now_ what’s going o…” His eyes immediately locked on the barmaid. “...Isabel?”

Isabel rushed to him, adopting a simpering look. “This _girl_ was just accusing me of spilling water on purpose,” she whined. The man, now that he was standing close to her, looked exceedingly similar, differing only in reaction―of which his was disgust. He glanced at the group, sizing them up. Quasimodo and Phoebus stood up behind Esméralda.

“Elyot…” Isabel frowned, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes.

“That’s it. Out,” he said sharply, without looking at them.

“ _What?_ ” Phoebus barked. Elyot pointed out the door.

“All of you, now.” His tone held no exceptions.

Phoebus, seeing no alternative, offered his arm to Esméralda, who accepted, and offered her own arm to Quasimodo, who hesitantly took it, and swept them past the barmaid and the man as gracefully as she could.

As soon as the door closed behind them, the group breathed out in tandem.

“Well, _I’m_ never going there again,” Phoebus said fiercely. “After the way you were treated? Not a chance.”

Esméralda smiled grimly, but her eyes held fire. “I was imagining dumping my goblet of water on her. I’m almost sorry I didn’t,” she said, giving a small, humorless smile. Quasimodo squeezed her hand, making her smile turn real. It was silent for a moment, only the sound of their shoes against the cobblestones breaking the quiet, while he gathered his thoughts.

“Come to the cathedral,” he turned, addressing the both of them. “There’s spare clothes you can wear while we warm up by the fireplace.”

His friends looked quite tempted, especially shivering in their sodden clothes, so Quasimodo decided to sweeten the offer.

“I have a book of poems you can read,” he smiled, knowing Phoebus rarely passed up a chance to read poetry, and for Esméralda, to tease him.

 

So the three huddled near the fireplace, bundled in scarves and reading aloud the compositions; but now their hearts were full of contentment, and, Quasi thought, it was a better ending to the day than he could have predicted.


	2. Chapter 2

Esméralda’s skirts flew as her feet skittered over the cobblestones, dancing to the steady sounds of the horn. She and Hanzi had made a considerable amount today—sixteen _sou_ —and although her legs were starting to ache, she was intent on persisting through the day. Esméralda could take part of the day off tomorrow if she _really_ felt she had to.

But as the hours passed, Esméralda had noticed something that she hadn’t previously. The villagers did indeed treat her differently than before the fires, but unlike the greetings Phoebus received just by walking through Paris, the townspeople looked uncomfortable when they had passed her and Hanzi in the streets. At first she’d thought it was because of her dancing’s intended audience—so she’d toned down the routines and donned a headscarf or two.

It hadn’t worked—the villagers _still_ avoided her eye, only tossing coins and hurrying along, barely even stopping to glance. The _second_ idea Esméralda had had was that perhaps they were afraid of Djali, who could sometimes be a little aggressive towards those carrying food, so she’d dropped her goat off in the bell tower, to the delight of the gargoyles. But the people acted no differently.

The last-ditch idea Esméralda came up with was modeled after Clopin and his performances. With him, the villagers often laughed along at his jokes, even sometimes sat down with their children to listen to his stories. So she mimicked him, performing sleight of hand for the children, like the coin-in-the-ear trick that had taken hours to perfect, and producing daisies out of thin air, which could delight even the most sullen.

The villagers, instead, avoided her even more, and, frustrated, Esméralda had reverted to her original routine. Djali did not accompany her this time, however; he had steadfastly refused to leave the comfort of the inn this morning, and so she had left him some lettuce and a bowl of water.

Esméralda suddenly realized she had not been paying attention as she danced, and she was coming dangerously close to a ditch. Struggling to regain her footing mid-twist, she tripped, sending pain shooting up her ankle, and a yelp escaped her as she landed hard on the cobblestones.

Esméralda, rubbing her head, sat up and experimentally flexed her right foot, then winced as a sharp twinge stabbed through it. With a groan, she tested it several other ways, angling it one way or another, but it all led to the same conclusion—although not serious, but there was no way she could dance on the ankle. She shook her head at a concerned Hanzi, who had stopped playing once she’d fell, and sighed. It would be an early end to the day, but if there was any consolation, Esméralda was free to go wherever she desired.

* * *

 

Limping slightly, Esméralda made her way into the cathedral, where stony walls and chilly air surrounded her once the door shut behind her. This marked her third—conscious—time in Notre Dame, and it only barely seemed more familiar—in fact, she had no idea what she was trying to do here. The building still loomed over her, ready to swallow her up, and again she wondered how Quasimodo could have spent twenty years trapped in its walls.

But Quasi was no longer trapped here, she reminded herself, and in fact he was probably floors above her right now—conversing with the architects, writing out the grand plans that had made them look so amazed—that had made _Hilde_ and _Jean_ look so amazed. But, as Esméralda crossed by another window, the thought of those two made her skin prickle uncomfortably, and she pushed it out of her mind for the time being.

She peered up at another window, one of the few that wasn’t broken, and squinted at the colorful panes, trying to make out the delicate shapes. Quasi had said that the glassblower who had produced the windows had long since passed, and now that she stepped closer, Esméralda could see that wherever the cathedral maintenance hadn’t managed to reach, a heavy layer of dust coated the glass. Some fine, hairline cracks appeared in it as well, whether the cause stemmed from the same maintenance, or simply time she did not know; for Notre Dame had been built hundreds of years before her, and likely did not record such trivial concerns for the public.

Esméralda wondered offhandedly what being a glassblower would entail, and what their studio would look like. Perhaps they were large rooms, two fireplaces in each brick wall, with people swarming in and out to deliver the newly-cooled glass panes. Or possibly the workshop was a small, cramped place, a single worker hunched over a kiln, smoke and ash billowing in their face. Either way, it couldn’t be an easy profession.

Her imagination stopping there, Esméralda turned back to the nave, where scattered villagers looked deep in their reveries.

She chose an empty pew and kneeled, wincing a little at the freezing stone floor. Keeping her head bent, she swept her eyes about the room, observing the parishioners and trying to mimic them. She shuffled a little, adjusting her position and trying her best to look solemn and devout.

She was embarrassed to say that she didn’t know _how_ to pray. Esméralda had never even opened a Bible before—the community that had raised her mostly stuck to their own personal beliefs, and although she knew of a few that had converted to Christianity, the only religious education she had ever received was from a few public sermons she’d witnessed. Esméralda sighed, looking around, and was ready to give up and walk out when someone kneeled down next to her.

“Quasi!” she whispered, unclasping her hands. He gave her a little wave, settling down next to her.

“What are you doing here?” Quasimodo asked, looking puzzled. “I thought you were out dancing.”

“My ankle was hurting me, so I took a break,” Esméralda gestured down to the makeshift ankle wrap she’d made out of her headband. “I just decided I’d stop by.”

“You know I’m on the upper floors, right?” Quasi asked playfully, nodding up to the ceiling. “Does your ankle hurt that badly?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Esméralda said untruthfully, not wanting to tell him she _really_ didn’t want to run into Hilde and Jean. There was also the fact that _she_ didn’t quite know what she was doing down here, either—though something nagged at her, something that’d been at the back of her mind ever since she’d first seen Notre Dame.

“Quasi…” she began, glancing away from him, “could you teach me how to pray?”

Quasi’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he seemed to want to ask why, but settled on a soft “of course.”

“Okay,” she said uncertainly, completely out of her element. “Where do we begin?”

“Well, first, some people put their hands together,” he demonstrated with his own hands, “like you were, earlier,” then letting them fall apart, “and some hold hands—”

Esméralda placed her hand in his, and Quasi stuttered for a moment, catching himself and continuing, albeit not without a blush on his face. She gave a quiet laugh and smiled in spite of herself.

“And there, um, are a _lot_ of prayers you can choose from; there’s the Hail Mary and the Our Father…” he trailed off, noticing the blank look she gave him. “But what’s easiest for you is probably just talking.”

Esméralda blinked. “What?”

“Well, that’s what praying is all about! That’s why _anyone_ can pray, because it’s just talking to Him!” Quasi looked encouraging, and Esméralda felt a pit forming in her stomach. Did her friend think she wanted to convert?

“Quasi—” Esméralda drew a deep breath, withdrawing her hand from him. “I-I don’t know if I want to—I’m not sure if, well, I just—” she felt she was doing a worse job of explaining herself every minute. He looked surprised at the sudden stammers, but meeting her eyes, seemed to understand what she was trying to convey. It had been a sudden request, anyway.

“That’s okay,” Quasi said slowly, soothing her. “Esméralda. Right now isn’t about joining the church, or doing anything you don’t want to. We can just pray.”

Thankful her friend had understood, Esméralda breathed a small sigh of relief and set back her shoulders. She offered her hand to him again, and Quasi took it.

“Now, just try speaking to Him,” he said cautiously, glancing at her, “You could ask for blessings, confess sins… it’s up to you.”

Esméralda bowed her head and closed her eyes. The presence of Quasi’s hand in hers was warm and comforting, and she tried to muster up something to say.

 _Dear Lord,_ she began. It felt clunky and awkward, but it was a good start. She didn’t know if people usually went straight into requests with their prayers.

_You know that Frollo hurt two very dear friends of mine. Quasimodo says he wasn’t acting on your orders, and I believe him. But because Phoebus was removed from his title by that man, he has no work, and doing odd jobs only earns enough to live in an inn._

_I have one request._ Esméralda shifted her knees.

_Please help us earn enough to buy a little house of our own. The inn owner has given us one month until we have to leave, and I do not want to want to ask any more of Quasimodo. He’s done so much for us already, I cannot impart on him any longer._

Esméralda wasn’t quite sure how to end this, so she settled on a quick, whispered “thank you,” and opened her eyes. Quasi was still beside her, eyes closed in his own trance, and she relaxed. Some part of her was anxious that he would be able to pick up on her prayers, and though she knew it was silly, sometimes Esméralda thought those blue eyes of his saw more than they let on.

Quasimodo finished his prayers and glanced to their joined hands, about to say something, when a whispered shout caught their attention. “Quasi! Up here!”

The two looked up to see Hilde waving from the staircase above. She smiled at Esméralda, who stiffly waved back. The other parishioners hushed them.

“They call you Quasi too,” Esméralda said strangely, feeling more like an accusation than a question. She felt suddenly awkward and out of place. Since when was everyone on a nickname basis with him?

“Well, yes,” his cheeks pinkened, and he was cut off yet again by another announcement from Hilde.

“We’re off our break now; I need you back!” Hilde ignored the scandalised parishioners, and Esméralda wished she could communicate her discomfort to them, too. She ended up throwing an apologetic expression towards the churchgoers. Quasi looked back at her, letting go of her hand.

“Is it okay if I…” he motioned towards the staircase.

“It’s fine,” Esméralda said automatically, looking down. _It’s not like you have a choice,_ she added silently. It wasn’t that she resented Quasi’s work—far from it—but it did take up _time._

Quasi stepped out of the pew, smiling back at her, and Esméralda watched him go, up the stairs and to the welcoming banter of Hilde, and Jean, who had evidently joined the fun as well. She crossed her arms and sat back, trying to limit her bitterness. Quasi had to work too, after all.

Which reminded her, she needed to find some. Dancing was all well and good, but she would feel guilty if a bad ankle prevented her from earning a day’s keep, or more, if the pain kept up.

Esméralda exited the cathedral as quietly as she could, and pushed open the doors, letting the warmth and open air onto her face. Whatever gooseflesh Notre Dame’s temperature had given her now smoothed with the sunlight, and Esméralda looked around the bustling plaza.

A bark of laughter drew her ear, and her eyes locked on Clopin, who was set up off to the side and gesturing madly with his puppets. His audience was little, a group of entranced villager children, and Esméralda, thinking of nothing better to do, joined them.

“... And the girl professed her love to the dying beast, and she wept over his body, thinking it was too late,” Clopin was saying, one hand clutching the base of a blue-dressed character, “but then… do you know what happened?”

“No!” chorused the kids, wide-eyed. Clopin beamed.

“The beast was lifted into the air,” he said slowly, raising up the monstrous cutout, “and the girl watched as he transformed into…”

“Into _what?_ ” a young boy asked, looking nervous. Clopin seized a rope hanging from the puppet theater and pulled; a new and colorful background flipped down and showered the children with glitter, who laughed in delight.

He pulled out a new character. “The most handsome prince!”

Esméralda privately scoffed—after all, if the girl already loved the beast, why should he have to turn handsome?—but the children looked delighted, and they soon quieted down for Clopin’s ending.

“The prince told the girl of the horrible curse he had been placed under, and soon asked for her hand in marriage,” Clopin said excitedly. The background changed again to reveal the inside of a church that looked suspiciously like Notre Dame itself. “The girl agreed, and the two lived happily ever after!”

The children gave him wild applause, and Esméralda clapped politely among them. The group soon dispersed, however, leaving behind a hefty amount of gold for the performance, and she decided she might as well pull him aside now.

“Clopin?” she parted the red curtains he’d disappeared behind, and he jumped, turning around to face her like he hadn’t seen her in the crowd. Perhaps he’d been too deep into his own performance to take notice of her.

Clopin poked his head through the curtains, still looking mildly startled. “Esméralda?”

“I, uh…” Esméralda hadn’t thought this far ahead, and she fidgeted with her hands. “Clopin, I was wondering if I could join you in performances? I’ve been taking a break from dancing,” she nodded her head towards her ankle, which throbbed in response.

Clopin looked doubtful, and Esméralda didn’t blame him. It was rare that performers shared roles like this; usually musicians and dancers were the only common partners, and Esméralda was not known for her ability to tell stories through puppeteering.

“I’m not asking to perform,” she added quickly, before Clopin could decide, “I’ll work behind the scenes; I’ll do backgrounds and props.”

Clopin looked far more relieved now that he knew she wasn’t trying to replace him, and Esméralda privately agreed. She could act well enough, but when it came to breathing life into other characters, well, she left that to people like Clopin, who had been performing for so long that she practically measured time by his puppet productions.

He stuck out his hand, and he grinned a chip-toothed smile. “Welcome to the show.”

* * *

 Three days later, Esméralda was under the draped roof of the puppet theater, maneuvering ropes and pulling off what Clopin had called his “most complicated scene yet,” which, for her, meant that she had to be keeping track of several portions of the small stage. The play was something she’d only previously heard in passing, _Jacques and the Giant Beanstalk,_ and Clopin had bestowed upon her the task of controlling two large puppets. The contraptions in question were the aforementioned beanstalk, a green, spiky thing, and a giant, which was the only marionette in the play and required her full concentration. The beanstalk was made of something Clopin called _papier-măché,_ an oddly textured but strong substance that he swore up and down he’d learned to make from a Persian puppetmaster, whatever that had entailed.

It was the last show before they would take a break, and Esméralda was relieved. She enjoyed the work—not only because it brought in considerably more money than dancing did—but she was sweltering under the drapery, even though the heavy fabric blocked the sunlight. The complicated puppets didn’t help, either, but as she learned to work more quickly with them, they became less of a nuisance—although she still preferred Clopin’s simpler plays.

Clopin called to her, and she snapped to attention, her eyes adjusting to the sunlight as she stepped out of the puppet theater.

“Break time,” he nodded, tossing her a coin. Esméralda looked down in surprise, wiping her forehead.

“A silver _franc?_ ” she said, shocked, and looked at him. “Clopin, you know how much _sou_ this is worth, I couldn’t just…”

“Take it,” Clopin said firmly, and he held up their profit for the day, which dangled in an unassuming sack. The message was clear: the two had already brought enough in for the day. He gestured towards the plaza, beckoning her to the market stalls, and Esméralda hesitantly made her way to them, clutching the coin in a tight fist—something she’d learned to do after too many experiences with the Phoebus’ old soldiers.

She couldn’t remember having spent so much at once in her entire life, but if a _child_ could afford to give Clopin this, perhaps she was worse off than she had thought. Or perhaps the child was simply from a wealthier family, one who could afford to give their children _francs_ for pocket-money and not bat an eye.

Esméralda walked along the stalls, letting her gaze slide over the shouting vendors and imported goods until she stopped at a less busy stall. Her stomach gave a hungry growl as she bent down to examine the products: small, compact jars full of fruit jam, ranging from what she assumed was peach to a deep purple jelly. Her eyes lingered on the deep pink raspberry jar—she’d only had it once in her life, as a child, and although she couldn’t recall the exact taste now, her eleven-year-old self was sure it was the best thing she’d ever eaten.

“How much for one?” she asked the woman behind the counter, who sized her up.

“Cherry’s thirty _sou,_ ” the woman drawled, pointing her thumb at the cherry jar, and Esméralda recoiled at the price, “strawberry’s twenty, raspberry is ten, and fig is five.”

Esméralda stood with her hand still curled tightly around the _franc,_ wondering if it was really worth it, but finally handed it over. The woman looked suspiciously at the coin, as if wondering how she had gotten the money, but seemed to decide that it wasn’t worth the trouble. She snatched up the raspberry jar and shoved both it and Esméralda’s change into her hands, then shooed her away.

With ten _sou_ left in her hand, Esméralda crossed the street in search of the baker’s stand. The smell of freshly baked bread led her relatively close, and it wasn’t long before she could see the telltale line of pastries stacked along the shelves. She eagerly scanned the shelves, hoping to see a cheap tart or maybe even a tansie, but Esméralda wasn’t quite that lucky, ending up instead with half a loaf of rye bread—still a good deal on her terms.

She sat down next to Clopin, who had packed his own lunch, and the two spent a quiet break together on a stone ledge. Esméralda opened the jelly jar with great difficulty to find a helpful surprise: a roughly carved wooden knife already attached to the bottom of the lid, stamped with the same insignia she’d seen at the stand. She eagerly tore a chunk of the loaf and smeared it with the gritty preserves, the rich magenta a stark contrast to the marbled bread.

Raspberry jam, evidently, was still the best thing she’d ever had, because Esméralda nearly cried tears of joy once she’d bit into it. The taste welcomed her back like an old friend, and she only barely managed to slow herself down enough not to choke on the food. Once she’d finished half the loaf and had enough jam to make her fingers sticky, she reluctantly closed the jar, taking care to place the knife back in its groove in the lid, and wrapped the container and the rest of the bread in her sash. She slung it as a bag over her shoulder, not trusting anyone to steal it while she was away, and washed her hands in the nearby fountain, coming back to Clopin, who was still making his way through his meal.

The funny thing about Clopin, actually, was that while she had known him, he hadn’t talked much, and, reflecting on this, Esméralda racked her brains, trying to remember anyone she had really seen him talking with. In fact, anytime she had seen him outside of a direct performance, whether simply playing a little ditty on his harmonica or putting on the Festival of Fools, he’d actually seemed shy. Even the first day she’d been hired, Clopin had been silent to the point where it had been a little awkward—but over the next few days, he _had_ talked more openly, and the awkward silences had turned into quiet companionship. And even if he _hadn’t_ been lonely, Esméralda knew what it was like to be in need of a friend.

* * *

As Esméralda walked home, crossing through the streets to the inn, which was on the edge of the town, she started to feel more uneasy. Even after living on the streets her whole life, where she’d become used to the chill, the dark alleyways, the untrustworthy figures among the vagrants, she’d begun to pick up on them again. Some would say she was becoming soft, after living with Phoebus at the inn. She would say she was becoming more observant.

Her hand involuntarily clenched into a fist, and she looked ahead. It wasn’t far now to the inn, and she could see its welcoming lanterns ahead, lighting the way ahead. Esméralda slowly relaxed as she drew closer to its comforting warmth, and, after reaching the door and unlocking it with the inn guests’ key, she gratefully entered.

Slipping inside her and Phoebus’ room, she found the latter penning a letter—probably to his family—on his treasured desk. The desk in question was the only possession Phoebus had brought over from his previous living quarters, a gorgeous wood-carved piece with several drawers. He prized the thing more than life itself—it was the first thing Phoebus had bought with his first war’s salary—not a total waste, since he wrote, and wrote often, but his family clearly disapproved, and, according to him, had taken months for them to forgive him.

He hadn’t heard her come in, so engrossed in his writing, and quietly she tiptoed behind him, making sure he’d set his quill down, and whispered a raspy “it’s me” in his ear. Phoebus jumped, rattling the ink pot and the candle on the desk aggressively, then whipped around, groaning once he saw it was her.

“How do I fall for that every time?” he slapped his forehead.

“You think for a soldier, you’d have better reflexes,” Esméralda chuckled, mentally adding another tally mark to her ongoing list: _How Many Times Esméralda_  C _an Scare Phoebus in a Row._ Phoebus rolled his eyes, standing up, and swept her up in a kiss, then broke away to twirl her.

“Feeling romantic?” Esméralda raised her eyebrows, trying to appear composed, although she was flattered by the sudden affection, and, she assumed, forgiveness for her scare.

“I’m writing a letter to Delia,” Phoebus nodded towards the parchment, halfway taken up by his small, meticulous writing. The candle illuminating it was nearly finished, half-drowned in its own wick and close to spilling on his desk, but still managing to bravely cast light. “I’ve got to tell my sister all about the wildly romantic escapades I’m having, shouldn’t I?”

“Of course,” Esméralda, smiling, crossed over to the desk, one hand on the chair and the other in Phoebus’ own. She glanced over the letter. “Reading would come in handy at times like this; I could advise you on what to write about me.” She added that last part playfully; she knew Phoebus would teach her how to read and write once they were settled.

Phoebus gently pulled her away. “All good things, I promise,” he said, squeezing her hands, bringing her to him.

“And your family doesn’t think I’m a sorceress sent to ensnare your heart?” she cocked an eyebrow.

“Well, I wouldn’t know that, would I, if I’m already ensnared,” Phoebus reasoned, running his fingers up her arms comfortingly. Esméralda leaned into him, touching foreheads, and smiled.

The two were clearly both tired, and so they stayed, holding each other, rocking back and forth. Being in Phoebus’ arms relaxed Esméralda from her walk to the inn—and made her feel safe again, which was probably aided by the fact that she was in the company of someone who fought professionally. She pulled him forward into a loose hug, arms over his back, and tucking her head over his shoulder, thankful that she was only an inch or two shorter than him. Phoebus’ hands slowly threaded through her hair, twisting it around his fingers, which she normally didn’t let him do, considering it made her hair frizzy. This time, she’d allow it.

“You know what I wrote on that paper?” Phoebus mumbled into her neck after a while, and she hummed in response, her eyes closed.

“I wrote that she was right. That I did find love in Paris… and it wasn’t what I expected.”

Esméralda had to laugh under her breath. The events of the past month had been far beyond anything anyone had expected.

“And that I was in the company of the most incredible woman I’d ever met,” Phoebus continued. “Well—besides my mother. No offense.”

“None taken, mother’s boy,” Esméralda responded smoothly, but no malice lay in her voice, and he snickered.

“Hey,” Phoebus protested, but Esméralda could practically hear him smiling. “Don’t you want to know what else I wrote?”

“Of course; do continue.”

“I don’t know, I might not now…” Phoebus countered. Esméralda pulled back, laughing, hands in his. Phoebus joined in too; and he picked her up, twirling her again, until they were a giggling mess, moving unsteadily in the small room, shadows cast by the weak oil lanterns twirling. Esméralda and Phoebus danced and eventually tripped into the bed, and with a mischievous look, Phoebus pinned her to the covers, his gaze dancing over to the pillows.

“You don’t want to do this,” Esméralda leaned up, grinning and knowing what he was insinuating. Phoebus dared to challenge her in this game?

“Don’t I?” Phoebus raised his eyebrows, and with a simple twist, she was free and grabbing the nearest cushion. Phoebus uttered an _oof_ as he was hit, and soft downy feathers floated down over the two. Phoebus blew a stray feather off his nose and rolled up his sleeves.

“Okay, you asked for it,” he said, barely managing to keep a straight face, and diving for the other pillow. He succeeded in a few weak blows, as Esméralda danced out of the way every time, but discovered instead _throwing_ the pillow made for a much more accurate hit.

He soon found this was a mistake, as Esméralda now stood at the other end of the room with the two pillows, shooting him a superior look.

“Anything before your defeat, Captain?” she tossed one into the air and caught it. Phoebus raised his hands, looking appropriately, well, defeated. “Just one thing.”

Hands still in the air, he crossed the room to Esméralda, only lowering them to slowly cup her face and guide it to his in a smooth kiss. She responded in kind; Esméralda’s arms lowered the pillows, and, quick as a whip, Phoebus snatched one out of her hand and gently whacked her on the head with it, causing her to shriek in delight.

“It’s a tie,” he added as an afterthought, and Esméralda shook her head and laughed.

 

Phoebus thought back to his half-finished letter, and decided that it was no use trying to capture her in words, no matter if his vocabulary was in Latin, Greek, or French. His family would just have to take him for granted—that someday they would meet Esméralda, and finally would they understand: the way she made him feel was far beyond description.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't checked out "In a Place of Miracles" or "As Long As There's a Moon," I highly recommend you do so. Also, if you didn't know this, Delia is another name for Artemis, who was the sister of Apollo (also known as Phoebus).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not an April Fools' joke, I promise.

Phoebus knew immediately he was dreaming, but this knowledge was of no use when he could not wake up.

 

Dirt and ash filled his throat, and Phoebus choked and spat out the grit, crawling up onto all fours. His eyes were still tightly closed, but as the stench of blood and rot filled his nose, it didn’t take a genius to figure out where he was.

“No,” he rasped, wiping his mouth. His eyes blinked open, swimming with dust, and he immediately jolted and scrambled backwards, breathing heavily. Inches from his face had been a dead man’s stare, one cast by a boy no older than eighteen, and that he recognized well. Phoebus pressed his hand to his mouth, almost biting his fist to keep a sob from escaping. He screwed his eyes shut and opened them again, hoping to wake up, but it was no use.

The boy had had a name, once, before he’d became another body on the battlefield, another stinking corpse to bury. He had been Nicholaus DelCroix, whose brown eyes shone with excitement, not dulled and gray like they were in the sunken face of the man before him.

Phoebus grit his teeth and closed his eyes, concentrating until he could no longer hear the whistling wind and the cries from far away, where he could take some sort of refuge from these horrors.

 

He opened his eyes to find Nicholaus alive.

“Phoebus, catch up!” he cried delightedly, running across the fields, his brown hair flopping across his eyes as a golden-haired boy followed him.

“You got a head start, you―!” the latter yelled back, waving his fist and panting as he jogged. Nicholaus gave what looked like an apologetic shrug before a grin broke out across his face.

“Looks like I’m getting that five _sou!_ ” he called, and gave a victorious yell as he crossed the finish line. Onlookers, all at least in their late teens, shook their heads and exchanged money, shoving each other good-naturedly.

The younger Phoebus sprinted to the line and barrelled into Nicholaus to tackle him, bringing them both down among shouts. “I’ve brought down the champion!” he crowed, and Nicholaus groaned and punched his arm. Phoebus gave a small nostalgic smile watching the scene.

“All right, break it up, boys,” a heavily wrinkled man limped onto the scene, casting his eyes over the tussle. The two boys immediately leaped to their feet and saluted, and even Phoebus felt himself stiffen from years of instinct.

“Yes, Lance Corporal!” they chanted, and the man looked satisfied, waving his arm to put them at ease. The two relaxed and looked to the man again, unsure of his next response.

“Now, who won?” he asked, his serious demeanor disappearing, and the young Phoebus rolled his eyes while Nicholaus pointed at his chest, looking extremely pleased. The Lance Corporal shook his head and sighed, grumbling, “I owe the Lieutenant ten _sou,_ ” before walking off.

The scene changed, and Phoebus watched as the sky was painted over with the dark rafters of the barracks, where the onlookers twisted and became sleeping forms in the bunks, and moonlight streamed in through a single window. Whispers came from the bunk at the very back, where two shadowy figures were speaking quietly. Phoebus treaded quietly to the end of the building, where he knew he would meet himself and Nicholaus again, and his heart ached at being faced with _this_ memory.

Phoebus turned on his heel to face the two and leaned on the opposite bedpost heavily. They were dressed in their bedclothes, and each wearing a leather bracelet. The jewelry was new―Phoebus knew they had been cut and braided just days before―and he ran his fingers over the beaten and battered ornament hanging off his own wrist.

Nicholaus was speaking, and he stared down at his hands, fiddling mindlessly. “And my brother said he’s _already_ fought in battle, and I don’t know if I can, Phoebus, my whole life the church has been against war, but then the _draft…_ ”

“Nicholaus…” the younger Phoebus looked uncertain of what to say, and Phoebus longed to reach out, to assure Nicholaus, but he could have never said enough to comfort his friend. “I’m sorry. I _can’t_ help.”

He dropped his head in his hands, and peeked through his fingers. Phoebus almost laughed at the childish display. How he had grown after war!

“I don’t want to fight _either._ But I know that―that whatever happens, God will forgive you.”

For Nicholaus’ family had been high-standing clergy, and they abhorred war, but not even members of the church had been exempt from the draft. Nicholaus and his brother had been selected and entered into separate barracks, and none of them had had any idea of what the right thing to do was―to fight, or not to fight.

“And your family will forgive you, too.” Phoebus looked him clearly in the face, suddenly realizing he was close to Nicholaus. “And… so will I.”

Nicholaus closed the distance between them by touching foreheads, waiting a beat while their whole world seemed to stop. The younger Phoebus was pulled into a kiss, and his eyes fluttered shut in surprise―Phoebus remembered, even though it seemed obvious now, he could not have been more doubtful as to whether Nicholaus returned his affections or not.

Phoebus looked away with a pang in his heart. He deeply missed Nicholaus, but this moment did not bring him the same kind of grief it once had. His kisses now belonged to another.

The boys broke apart and Nicholaus hung his head, murmuring something so quietly Phoebus couldn’t hear it. He leaned forward in spite of himself, but even so, still missed it.

Nicholaus interlaced their fingers, leaning towards the younger again, but before their lips could meet, he whipped around, staring directly at Phoebus.

He stumbled and took several steps back into the bed behind him―Nicholaus’ eyes were no longer brown, but piercing blue.

 

Phoebus awoke with a start, and he cast his gaze wildly about the room. Once it became apparent he was no longer dreaming, Phoebus sat heavily against the headboard and sighed, bringing his hands to his face and his knees to his chest. As much as he appeared the brave soldier, there was no use fighting off his dreams.

“Phoebus?” a voice asked by his side, and he looked down to see a heavy-lidded Esméralda blinking slowly at him, looking ready to fall back asleep at any moment. “Are you okay?”

Phoebus hesitated―Esméralda knew of his friendship with Nicholaus, but he’d declined to tell her the exact nature of it. He had recalled the memories to her previously, when their conversation had turned to war and lost love, but Phoebus could tell he had a certain look on his face, and Esméralda had treated him a little more gently the few days after it.

“It was just a nightmare. Don’t worry about it,” he said, stroking her hair, “go back to sleep.”

Esméralda settled back into her pillow, yawning a little, and within a few moments, her eyes closed and her breathing slowed.

Phoebus didn’t particularly want to go back to sleep, as not only did he have the possibility of war dreams to think about, there was the disconcerting image of Nicholaus’ new eyes to worry him. He didn’t even really know why he’d decided to not tell Esméralda about the whole thing.

But Phoebus soon found that no matter how hard he tried staying up, he really was tired, and Phoebus settled into a sound, thankfully dreamless sleep, with Esméralda curled up at his side.

* * *

Djali bleated indignantly as he was slung over Phoebus’ shoulder like no more than a bag of rice, but Esméralda only chuckled.

“Djali, you should have gotten up when you were told,” she scolded, putting on her shoes, and Phoebus held the old wood door open for her as they both left their inn chambers. Esméralda gently took the goat from Phoebus’ grip and set him down, dusting her hands off.

“Lazy goat,” Phoebus muttered good-naturedly, locking up the room, and Djali glared at him. He tossed one of the keys to Esméralda, who caught it neatly, and they gave each other a quick goodbye kiss before setting off in their separate ways. Phoebus was sure he heard Djali blow a raspberry at his back, but he laughed quietly and decided to ignore it.

Phoebus pushed open the inn doors to the village, looking up at the cloudy sky. It was another day of job searching, and he tried to start off each day fairly confident. The villagers greeted him left and right, meeting him with enthusiasm. The children, of course, pointed and whispered at the sword hanging by his side―the only relic he’d preserved from his days as Captain of the Guard―but he did his best to cheerily wave at them.

He strolled up to the inn stables and gave a short salute to the stable hand, who nodded back and undid the heavy bolt from Achilles’ enclosure. Immediately, Achilles trotted out and neighed excitedly when he saw his master, and Phoebus grinned, heading over to give his horse a good long neck scratch.

“Had a good night, Achilles?” Phoebus asked, saddling him up, and Achilles neighed in response. Phoebus caught the stable hand giving him an odd look, and he quickly cleared his throat and finished tightening the reins on his horse in silence.

Achilles accommodated this until Phoebus swung himself on top and directed him out, thankful that one of the inn’s services was giving the horses breakfast. He loved Achilles, but he would eat him out of the house and home when possible, and Phoebus was focused on saving every penny.

As the two trotted off, Phoebus angled his head back, trying to catch a glimpse of Esméralda, and his mood lowered somewhat. He could still see her moving down the street, but the villagers were clearly avoiding where she was walking―and in contrast, however much he’d tried to ignore it, they seemed to like _him_ too much for his comfort. It was as if they’d preferred to avoid the fact that a hunchback and a gypsy had ever been part of the saving of Paris in the first place.

There was really only one useful thing that the villagers’ admiration brought him, and it took the form of many connections. Phoebus, unlike Quasimodo and Esméralda, hadn’t managed to secure a full-time job yet, and the villagers only went so far out of their way for him. An ex-captain didn’t have many useful talents in a non-war context, except perhaps giving orders and taming wild horses; so Phoebus was on the hunt for menial labor every day.

Odd jobs were beneficial in terms of work diversity, but they often only brought a handful of _sou_ every day, owing to the fact that his work experience couldn’t even rival an apprentice, and no one was willing to train him further. Often he’d be instructed by a fifteen-year-old whose master couldn’t be bothered―or perhaps just too busy.

Phoebus was brought out of his thoughts by an unusual sight: a few paper announcements, tacked onto various stalls, all with the trademark “employment” stamp. He halted Achilles and stared―rarely anyone besides the occasional gazette used paper―but then pulled the horse over and dismounted by a butchering stand, thinking if whoever this was could afford paper, they could definitely afford to pay him well.

Stooping at its level, Phoebus brightened as he read “strongman wanted - in cleaning out variouss Offices of Notre Dame; apply very quickely.” The Archdeacon’s hasty signature appeared at the bottom of the page, approving it, and Phoebus pumped his arm in victory. _Notre Dame_ was employing!

“Excuse me,” he tapped the stallman’s shoulder, who glared before setting his tools down, “do you know how many people have applied for this?”

“There’s not too many people that can even _read_ that,son,” he deadpanned, raising a bushy eyebrow at Phoebus, and continuing, “Lord knows I can’t, myself, but I wasn’t about to argue with the hunchback when he put them up.”

“Quasimodo put these up?” Phoebus asked excitedly, straightening up and immediately banging his head on the stall frame. The stallman gave him a blank look as Phoebus rubbed his head, and he corrected himself. “I mean, the hu―the bellringer?”

The stallman affirmed this, going back to polishing his tools. “‘S far as I know.”

Phoebus grabbed the paper, offering a quick word of thanks, and jumped back onto Achilles, giving him a quick neck pat.

“Towards Notre Dame, Achilles. We have some work to do!”

* * *

Phoebus finished hooking up Achilles’ reins to the flagpole. He’d become a loyal customer to the local horse care, a little station run by a family who charged a few cents an hour to take the horses around town. The only downside was that he had to leave his prized horse in the hands of a twelve-year-old, no matter how enthusiastic the child looked. Even Achilles himself occasionally looked nervous.

But he always was returned safe and sound, albeit sometimes rather muddy, and so Phoebus turned the corner into Notre Dame, where another of the flyers was tacked up on the door, making the doors seem a little less intimidating than usual.

Before Phoebus could reach for the handle of the door, it swung wide open, and in the doorway stood Jean, who looked surprised to see him. He quickly recovered, however, and in the midst of ushering Phoebus inside, he yelled over his shoulder, “Quasi, your soldier friend is here!”

The heavy doors shut with a boom behind him. As footsteps sounded down the stairs, Phoebus’ vision was blocked by another man entering the hall―George? No, Gilet―who nodded in his direction without looking at him, absorbed totally in the piles of marked-up papers he was carrying. Quasi, appearing at the top of the stairs, was in the midst of scribbling something down on a checklist before hopping down to Phoebus, excitement clear in his blue eyes.

In his _blue_ eyes. Phoebus felt a jolt.

“Hi, Phoebus! I was hoping you’d come,” Quasi said happily, brushing hair out of his eyes. “You’re the only one that’s signed up so far.”

“Happy to be here,” Phoebus replied easily, trying to push the eyes to the back of his head; and it had been true, for his mood had considerably lifted since knowing he’d work close to his friend. “I heard you need a strongman, so…” he grinned and flexed his arms. Jean gave an easy laugh.

Quasi rolled his eyes. “Uh huh. Anyway, since a lot of these rooms were used by Frollo, and he’s, uh…”

“Dead,” Gilet supplied without looking up from his papers.

“Yes,” Quasi looked down at his list again, a little harried, “you’ll be working with me to figure out what we can use and what we have to throw away. I’m doing it because―because I knew him the best.” He looked exceedingly uncomfortable making that statement, and even Phoebus felt some second-hand discomfort. Frollo had once referred to himself and Phoebus as kindred souls while discussing his plans for the gypsies, and that had upset Phoebus more than he’d cared to admit.

“I told you, Hilde and I can do it with you,” Jean said softly, his eyes flicking over to Phoebus, and Quasi shook his head. Phoebus felt defensive. He was capable; Quasi didn’t need friends he’d met a week ago to do this with him.

“No, it’s fine, we’d better get going,” Quasi brushed him off, clearly wanting to leave the conversation―in fact, Gilet had already walked off. Jean opened his mouth, about to protest, but looked at Phoebus again and settled for a small sigh. He shrugged at him, secretly feeling victorious Quasi had chosen him to work with. But he was pulled out of his small celebration when Quasi pulled him up the stairs, almost lifting him in the process, and Phoebus stumbled up along with him.

“So what kind of things are we going to be needing?” Phoebus asked Quasi’s back, eyes adjusting to the stairway in the low light.

“Just useful things,” Quasi said vaguely, and Phoebus sensed his mind wasn’t really on just the project. “We’ll be looking for blueprints, records of previous upkeep and renovations,” he elaborated. “We’ll start off in his office―you were there before―and move out from there.”

He pushed open the door with practiced ease, and Phoebus followed him into the room, hoping to distract Quasi from the bad memories surely waiting for him. Surely clearing out Frollo’s room wouldn’t be fun doing alone―he could see why having someone along would be much more assuring.

“I gotta say, I love what you’ve done with the place,” Phoebus commented on the leaning towers of boxes, which evidently hadn’t been moved since the last time he’d seen them. Quasi laughed, which gave him some confidence.

“Yeah, we hadn’t really gotten around to that,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “but since the Archdeacon wants to repurpose the room, we were told to basically keep what was useful and give the rest to charity.”

“I’m sure Frollo will rest easy knowing that half his furniture will be given away,” Phoebus chuckled, examining the inside of the room once more. If Phoebus himself didn’t like most people touching his beloved writing desk, he shuddered to think what the judge would have to say. And as the floorboards creaked under his feet, he wondered who his writing desk would go to if he were to die a similarly sudden death.

“Well, we’re also supposed to find a will, if he had one,” Quasi heaved the first box from the tower―with immense strength, as Phoebus soon found, because, as he tried taking a box, it felt as if he were carrying two tons of bricks.

“Who would _Frollo_ want all this given to?” Phoebus wondered out loud, grunting under the weight. Quasi gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Honestly, I don’t think he would even have a will.”

They started unpacking boxes upon boxes of the judge’s belongings, ranging from various certificates to academic transcripts, which Phoebus viewed with great interest. He scanned the transcripts eagerly, wondering if he had done better in school than Frollo had.

_Astronomy - Second Optimum_

_Latin - Optimum_

_Logic & Rhetoric - Second Optimum _

_Arithmetic - Inferiores_

_Music Theory - Peiores_

_Grammar - Optimum_

Phoebus’ face reddened. He had done worse academically than Frollo had, except for achieving a higher grade in Logic & Rhetoric. There were scribbled notes from teachers next to the grades as well, all in perfectly illegible ink, and he was reminded again of his mother’s insistence that he take calligraphy, which evidently proved to be of no use even now. Even if he had retained something from the dull courses, Phoebus could barely make out the faded words now.

Deciding that this was enough embarrassment for the day, he put the academic records into the designated trash pile and searched through the other few boxes he’d pulled down, and discovered to his delight that one contained many robes. Calling Quasi over, the two decided that in order to find out if the robes were available for donation or other repurposing, they would have to try them on. For purely philanthropic purposes, of course.

That being said, they looked absolutely ridiculous. Neither of them were as tall as Frollo was, and the robes dragged behind both in a way that was neither as majestic nor intimidating as he had made them out to be. However, Quasi recounted with great humor the time he had witnessed the judge trip on his own robes and fall down three flights of stairs. Phoebus found this to be extremely funny, but unfortunately then proceeded to humble himself by tripping at least five times on the fabric.

Quasimodo viewed with much fascination the more colorful robes given to Frollo, assumed to belong to his previous roles of lower rank. These were covered with dust and had seemed to never be worn―which didn’t surprise Quasi, he explained, as Frollo had once offhandedly commented that bright clothing was “the devil’s robes,” and so Phoebus took it upon himself to assist Quasi into trying on every brightly colored piece of clothing they could find, resulting in him looking extremely garish but still delighted. Phoebus, however, challenged himself to wear as many hats as he could while still managing to organize, a feat he only managed to accomplish by moving his body as little as possible.

Eventually, they moved onto Frollo’s various awards and trophies, which, Quasimodo had been informed, would be melted down into gold and silver.

Phoebus whistled. “The Archdeacon really don’t want any record of Frollo left behind, does he.”

“It’s not just because he’s disgraced,” Quasi explained, “it’s to help raise funds for the cathedral’s restoration. Well, and the gold can help work in the gold leaf decoration.”

Phoebus hummed, looking at one of the trophies in his hand. _Award for Services to the Church in Purifying the Souls of Paris._ Extremely vague and probably awarded by himself.

“I wouldn’t want him to be forgotten, anyway,” Quasi bent down to look at a plaque with disgust. He dropped it in the bucket containing Frollo’s various other achievements without a second glance. “It would just give history an excuse to repeat itself.”

Phoebus paused in the middle of turning the trophy over in his hand. He looked up. Phoebus had been in favor of forgetting Frollo―he didn’t want to have to think of him again, and he’d assumed Quasi had felt the same. But now, seeing how Quasi really felt, and now that he thought about it, Esméralda, too… well, it gave him something to mull over.

In fact, he realized, this was exactly the type of thinking the villagers had been following after the burning of Paris. The same thinking that had led them to slowly revert back to ignoring Esméralda and to treat Quasi as if he were nothing special. Phoebus bit his lip.

He had thought forgetting would heal―would extinguish any residual memories of the horror Frollo had wanted―but Phoebus still had nightmares of fire and arrows, and so did Esméralda. Forgetting wouldn’t bring anyone peace.

“You’re right,” Phoebus crossed the room and threw the award into the bucket with unnecessary force. “Frollo doesn’t deserve to be remembered as―” he scanned the titles on the awards scattered across the floor, “the ‘Minister of Forgiveness’ or the ‘Most Pure of Mind’, but he _does_ deserve to be known as someone who’d condemn the innocent.”

Quasi looked surprised at this sudden outburst, and gave him a thoughtful look. Phoebus looked at him and then away, feeling as though he’d said too much. Embarrassment crept over him, and he folded his arms.

“You know, when I met you, I thought you were just a dumb soldier,” Quasi finally said. “I didn’t think you’d be completely against Frollo a month later.”

“... And?” Phoebus blinked. His perception of Quasi had changed, too, from someone he pitied, to an equal―if not greater. So why was he bringing this up?

“Nothing, it’s just something I noticed,” he gave a small smile. “Looks like not all soldiers just follow orders.”

Phoebus hummed, not sure what to make of it, and the two returned to working in relative silence, interrupted only by Hilde, who burst into laughter when she saw their outfits, and in between gasps, told them that a lunch break was being announced. Quasi ushered him out of the room first, and as he walked out, Phoebus thought he saw him hide something in Frollo’s main desk.

As the two headed out of the cathedral, Phoebus caught sight of Hilde and Jean looking at him, barely containing giggles―Hilde had probably told Jean of Phoebus’ many number of hats, and even still some dust remained in Phoebus’ hair. He reached up to swat it out, feeling disconcerted. Was the fact Phoebus had been fooling around going to paint him as the same “dumb soldier” to Quasi’s friends?―and was that why Jean and Hilde wanted to help Quasi instead?

Phoebus and Quasi walked along the market rows, and he ignored the growling in his stomach, hoping Quasi wouldn’t hear it. Phoebus had recently taken to only eating one meal a day―he didn’t really count a few crusts of bread as a breakfast―in an effort to speed up saving for a new home. Even better, for some paid-by-the-hour jobs, not having a lunch break earned him more money. Of course, he didn’t dare tell Esméralda this, for she would insist he eat a lunch, and he couldn’t tell Quasi, for himself and Esméralda had agreed that they couldn’t take any more of his charity in good faith.

“What would you like?” Quasi elbowed him, and Phoebus jerked back to reality. They were standing in front of a fisherman’s stall, fresh salmon and trout hanging along a rope like ribbons. Cooked fish were displayed too; roasted pieces were skewered along little spears and wafted tantalizing smells.

“What?” Phoebus looked at him. Quasi motioned towards the fish.

“The salmon is the best, but if you prefer something else―”

 _Oh._ Quasi was trying to get him lunch. “Oh, no, I don’t need you to buy me anything…”

“No, it’s my treat,” he assured him, going up to the vendor and asking for a few skewers, “remember when we went to the _Rose and Lattice?_ Well, that’s actually not a great example, we were thrown out, but still…”

“No, I’m not hungry,” Phoebus tried, but at that moment his stomach chose to rumble exceedingly loudly, and Quasi raised an eyebrow.

“Four skewers, actually,” he directed to the vendor, sliding some coins across the counter, and Phoebus’ protests died out as he was handed two kabobs.

Quasimodo laughed as Phoebus bit into it and gave a frankly indecent moan around the mouthful of fish. “Good, right? The fisherman has a cousin that sends him limes every so often; if you’re really polite he’ll add some for free.”

“Wow,” Phoebus said in between wolfing down the salmon, wondering how on earth Quasi could have known that. Quasi, chewing on his own kabob, looked a little concerned when Phoebus finished his first skewer within seconds.

Eventually, after the fish was eaten and the skewers discarded, in their last few minutes Phoebus and Quasi decided to visit Esméralda, who was just getting ready for her own lunch. She was laughing and chatting with Clopin as she stepped out of the stage, shaking the dust out of her hair and gesturing to one of the puppets. While Quasi headed to Clopin, intrigued by the mechanics, Phoebus approached Esméralda, hoping to surprise her.

However, she turned around right as Phoebus crept up behind her, so he greeted her with a kiss. Esméralda pulled away after a few seconds, wrinkling her nose.

“You taste like fish,” she squinted at him, and Phoebus rolled his eyes.

“I love you, too.”

Esméralda laughed and kissed him again, but this time she was beckoned away by Clopin, who gave him a friendly little smile in passing. He nodded to a few coins in his hand and said something Phoebus couldn’t quite hear, looking at one of the market stalls. Esméralda gave Quasi a quick hug and turned back to Phoebus.

“I’ll see you!” she waved to him, and Quasi and Phoebus headed back to the cathedral in high spirits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also sketched out some designs for the architects, if you would like to view them [right here](https://imgur.com/a/IdN8HJz).


	4. Chapter 4

Phoebus stood in Quasi’s workshop, and he admired it again―somehow, the sight never seemed to get old. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and even without pressing his ear to the floor, he could hear the angelic voices of the choir rising up from the inside of the cathedral. The gargoyles were nowhere to be seen; as Quasi wasn’t here yet from running errands―the last task of the day for Notre Dame. Phoebus wondered if they genuinely didn’t know he was present, or were simply ignoring him.

The choir suddenly hit a very high note and Phoebus jumped, hearing a snigger from the statues’ direction. He looked down as if to see the cathedral below him in the wooden floors.

Waiting for Quasi still, he idly walked around the workshop, kicking absently at the raggedy carpets underneath the main worktable, and, not paying attention, walked straight into an open drawer. Phoebus’ knee shot pain through the joint and he inhaled sharply, bending over to check if it had drawn blood―he regretted selling his armor, for even though it had been borderline useless at this point, it seemed now as if every little trivial thing―toe-stubbing, elbow-knocking―was now ten times the pain as he remembered it.

Satisfied that he could see no blood through his hose―and a good thing that there was no scratch, too, as this was currently his only clean pair―Phoebus went to close the drawer, stopping halfway through as he noticed something inside.

It was a package; about the length and width of his hand, and wrapped in brown paper and twine. The paper was scribbled on the back, reading “ _T_ _o Phoebus_ ” in messy, left-slanted writing, and he reeled back.

Uh oh. Was this something he wasn’t supposed to see?

Just then, the door to the workshop swung open, and Quasimodo walked in, humming to himself and stopping short when he saw Phoebus, who looked like a deer in headlights.

“Quasi! Uh―it’s not what you think, I wasn’t looking in your drawers! I tripped, and this―I mean, I just saw it, and―”

He looked confused at the sudden disclaims. “What do you―oh!” Quasi, upon coming closer, recognized the object.

“I wasn’t looking in your desk,” Phoebus repeated, a little panicky, aware he was starting to sound like an ignored town heralder.

“Phoebus, I didn’t think you were,” Quasi assured him, touching his arm. He looked up at him, an amused expression playing at his face. “I found it going through Frollo's things. I was going to give you that later, but… you can go ahead and open it now.”

Quasi seemed to notice his hand was still on Phoebus’ arm and stepped back, looking over. Phoebus carefully unwrapped the bundle, taking care not to tear the corners in case there was something delicate inside, and pulled them back. His eyes widened.

Inside was a beautiful quill, a magnificent feather whose soft, downy barbs floated in the air as Phoebus held it up, admiring it from all sides. The quill shaft was enclosed in sophisticated silver gilding not unlike intricate silverware he’d seen, soft spirals curling down to meet little fleur-de-lys and other patterns, all stretching down to the sharp tip. Adding the weight to the parcel were two stopped-up ink pots, which Phoebus had deftly caught after almost toppling out of the wrapping paper.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Quasi exclaimed, breaking Phoebus out of his daze, and dove for the desk, fumbling around in the drawer for a moment before presenting him with a book.

Phoebus gently set the quill-and-ink sets down, making sure to treat it as cautiously as possible, and took the book from Quasi’s hands, immediately recognizing the cover.

“ _Les Petit Inventions!_ ” he stared at Quasi in disbelief. “But this is your favorite book; I―I can’t take this!”

“Yes, you can,” Quasi insisted, “You actually had an _education,_ you can appreciate it a lot more than I ever could.”

“That doesn’t mean―”

“Listen, I know―”

The two started bickering back and forth, the politeness coming to its breaking point, when the workshop door opened again. The two looked up to find Esméralda, brandishing two letters out of a messenger’s bag, and looking a little unsure now that she had walked in on the squabble.

“Should I come back later?” she nodded her head towards the door, and while Phoebus was distracted in replying, Quasimodo took the opportunity and shoved the gift back into his arms.

“Quasi’s being intolerably generous again,” Phoebus rolled his eyes. Esméralda laughed, crossing towards them.

“Quasi, how could you?” she reprimanded, and then, taking the papers in hand, handed one to each. “There’s a celebration tomorrow―Clopin and his group are holding it, he asked me to invite you.”

“Clopin has a group?” From Phoebus’ limited experience with Clopin, he seemed like more of the solitary type. But to be fair, he _had_ ambushed him with a group back in the Court of Miracles, so perhaps he was making some incorrect judgements. Phoebus took his invitation, a little surprised that it was on _paper_ ―and the proper kind, too, not the discolored, homemade stuff he’d used in the army.

“Well―he’s presenting with the performers,” Esméralda admitted, brushing her hair back. “I used to host with them, too, but since I’m not a dancer anymore, I don’t qualify. I’ll be a lowly guest like you two,” she smirked.

Phoebus skimmed the invitation, admiring what he assumed to be Clopin’s penmanship, and squinted his eyes upon reading “dress your best.” This was a formal event?

“What’s _La Pomme D’Eve?_ ” Quasimodo asked interestedly, looking at the card. “Another tavern?”

Esméralda hesitated. “It’s a little more complicated.” She paused for a moment again, then continued, fiddling with her bracelets. “Well, it _is_ a tavern, but it’s usually only for gypsies―like the Court of Miracles. Except for parties, now, apparently.”

Phoebus, at first, felt a little taken aback. A tavern _only_ for gypsies? What about the rest of the French?

But then, he realized, where, then, _would_ they have gone? Who else would service them? If the experience at the _Rose and Lattice_ had taught him anything, it was that he could never assume the Romani would be welcome anywhere.

“We’ll be there,” Quasimodo said confidently, and Phoebus looked up from Clopin’s scrawled “ _Répondez, s'il vous plaît_ ” to find Esméralda waiting for his response.

“Uh, yes, absolutely,” Phoebus stammered, mind whirling. How on Earth was he supposed to find the right formal wear by tomorrow?

Esméralda kissed him and Quasi on the cheek as a thank-you, then strode towards the door. “I have to deliver the rest of the invitations, but we should meet by the cathedral tomorrow, at dark. I’ll show you to the tavern,” she waved, then, straightening her bag, stepped down the stairs.

Phoebus and Quasi waited until the sound of her feet were gone, then looked at each other.

“... Do _you_ have any formal wear?”

“Do _you?_ ”

* * *

“It’s not like we’ll stick out _that_ much if we don’t dress up,” Quasi reasoned half-heartedly. “Besides, it’s not like we’re supposed to be impressing anyone.”

“I think we’re going to have to do _something_ ,” Phoebus frowned.Both Phoebus and Quasi had only the bare necessities for clothing; while Quasi’s reason was obvious, Phoebus’ concerned the French government’s penchant for repossessing ex-soldiers’ belongings.

The two had been walking down the alleys of Paris’ fashion district, but most of the extravagant storefronts seemed to present to wealthy noblewomen, and they had been hard-pressed to find a tailor who would cater to their needs.

 _The Gentleman’s Garderobe_ had been the last store, a little building that had been pushed aside by bigger boutiques, but whose windows, hanging with decently priced clothing, had beckoned them to it. Phoebus shrugged at Quasi and walked in, holding the door open for him.

The interior was cozier than it appeared on the outside―white, gauzy curtains, pulled back with frayed rope, flapped slowly from poles at the ceiling, which Phoebus assumed were for changing stalls. Fabrics, less rich and colorful than in the stores he and Quasi had passed by, were stacked every which way, covered with pins, white marks, and paper sketches. _Ordo ab chao,_ as his father would say.

Phoebus didn’t know much about an actual tailor’s station, and he and Quasi looked around with equal curiosity. Growing up, tailors were always hired to come to his family’s home, never the other way around. It would be a disgrace to the _de Châteaupers_ name to actually visit the store itself.

A curtain at the back parted, and they were greeted, firstly, by a tottering tower of sewing baskets and yards of fabric, which was followed by a woman in her fifties, whose rosy-blonde hair suggested it had once been a rich red. She bustled over, handling the weight expertly and pushing boxes away with her heels as she went.

“Hello, dears!” she chirped, setting down the last of the piles on an already-overflowing table, and dusted off her hands. She looked up at them expectantly, looking a little surprised as her gaze drifted to Quasi, but quickly recovered. “Mesdame Blanc, at your service. What can I help you boys with?”

“Mesdame Blanc,” Quasi began, bowing in earnest and making Phoebus stifle a chuckle, “my friend and I were invited to a… gathering tomorrow, but we don’t have any formal clothing.”

She looked shocked. “ _Nothing?_ ”

“No, ma’am,” Quasi looked at Phoebus, and he nodded, backing him up. The woman gave them a once-over, sizing up the slightly ragged clothes they were wearing, and hmm’d in thought.

“Well, I suppose I work best from scratch,” she tapped her chin, then gestured at the two, “would you come with me?”

Without waiting for an answer, Mesdame Blanc turned and led them through a maze of supply-stacked tables, weaving in and out with purpose. Occasionally Phoebus would see half-completed apparel strewn among the piles, and to his excitement, it looked to be of considerably higher quality than the garments displayed in the front window of the _Garderobe._

“Now, what did you say your names were?” Mesdame Blanc asked, yanking down a yard of dark corduroy. She measured it, held it up to Phoebus’ face, and nodded, folding it neatly and stacking it into her arms.

“Phoebus and Quasimodo,” Quasi said, gesturing to them and almost tripping over a loose scarf on the floor. Phoebus caught him, proceeded to trip over the same scarf again, and managed to hoist the two of them up before Mesdame Blanc could look back at them.

“Quasimodo, would you come here, please? I want to see how these look on you,” she beckoned him over, frowning at the two fabrics in hand. Quasi hesitantly joined her and she immediately held them up, switching the cloths variously. “Green normally goes with _our_ kind of hair, but―hmm―it doesn’t seem to bring out your eyes the way I’d hoped…”

Phoebus looked away, briefly scanning the shop again, and when he looked back he found that Mesdame Blanc had somehow accumulated even more in her arms. Staggering a little, she swept off a nearby table and dropped it all, stepping back to size up Quasimodo next to the colors. He looked nervously at the pile.

“Mesdame…” Quasi began, shifting his weight, “I’m―I’m not sure I can afford these…” he trailed off, clearly embarrassed, and Mesdame Blanc’s face softened. Phoebus sympathized. Dyed fabric could be incredibly expensive.

“Oh, of course, dear,” she patted his shoulder, “I should have known, I apologize.” She paused, perhaps embarrassed she hadn’t remembered sooner, then looked delighted, striking upon an idea. “You know what, I have just the thing―let me have my son get it for you.”

She turned to yell. “ _Elyot!_ Would you please bring the cotton out?”

A great clattering came from the back door, and soon enough a man with a rack of fabric thrown over his shoulder emerged, red hair flopping over his face. “Mother, what on Earth d’you need the cotton for, you having some…”

Phoebus and Quasi froze.

“…Guests?” Elyot’s voice trailed off.

Mesdame Blanc looked back and forth between them, noting their stunned faces. “Do you three know each other?”

Elyot, looking purple, nodded stiffly. “They―they were at the Rose and Lattice.” He cleared his throat a few times. “I, uh… didn’t know they were here.”

He thrust the cotton at her. “I’ll―uh―be in the back.”

As the back door closed behind him, Mesdame Blanc spread the material out and began marking. “Elyot’s rather reserved when it comes to strangers, poor dear,” she said cheerfully. “I keep telling him I’ll never get any daughter-in-laws at this rate, the way he avoids them, like the Black Death itself…” she dug around in a nearby sewing basket and came up with a heavy-looking pair of scissors.

Phoebus shot an incredulous look at Quasi, and he returned it, the two trying to have a silent conversation over Mesdame Blanc’s remarks.

“But dear, I think you would look _splendid_ in a doublet. Normally it’s worn under a jacket, of course, but I hear in Spain that they’re starting to wear it by themselves, and I _must_ say, the Spanish do know their fashion… now, could I take your measurements?”

Quasi had barely uttered agreement when she swooped over with a piece of measuring-leather, putting down little charcoal marks here and there on a stray paper, and then finally set it down, looking pensively down at his feet.

“Now, what to do about your hose… is this the only pair you have?”

Quasi nodded, and Mesdame Blanc turned to Phoebus, who agreed sheepishly. “It’ll take too long to sew together by tomorrow night, so I wonder…”

She frowned, tapping her chin again, until her gaze swept back up to them. “Now, I don’t normally do this, mind you, but I’ll make an exception―I can offer to rent you some breeches tomorrow night for your party, if you boys _promise_ to take good care of them.”

“Of course!” Quasi looked eager, and Phoebus grinned, catching on, too. He’d been worried no business would sell to them, but seeing the sincerity in Mesdame Blanc’s face gave him confidence that he and Quasi would be able to impress Esméralda―and perhaps even some of the other partygoers, too.

“And your friend Phoebus, I must say, he would look quite dashing in a jerkin, don’t you think? With his old tunic―”

“It’s not old,” Phoebus protested, but Mesdame Blanc continued as if she hadn’t heard him.

“And the hose, I really think we could pull something together,” she said happily. “I’ll polish off some of my old buttons, I _knew_ they would come in handy sometime!”

Mesdame Blanc took the measuring-leather to Phoebus this time, hemming and hawing as she scribbled them down, but otherwise looking very pleased with herself when done.

“Now, you both come back tomorrow night, you just _wait,_ ” she beamed. “You’ll be the two most dashing men on the ballroom floor!”

* * *

 “Oh,” Phoebus managed to say, stunned into silence. “Wow.”

Quasi shifted, looking for a mirror. “Do I look all right?”

“No! No, Quasi, you―you look great,” Phoebus choked out. He brought a hand up to his hair and nervously combed through it. “I’m just, um, I haven’t seen you… like this.”

Quasi smiled at him, looking relieved, and was handed a mirror by an excited Mesdame. The lovingly sewn doublet was cream-colored, with bronzed trim that took attention off of the undyed fabric, something he was deeply grateful for. The piece ended at his throat, fastened with tiny buttons, and surrounded his neck with white ruffle. Quasi pulled at the ruffle somewhat―it made him feel constricted, but if this was what it took to attend the party, he would survive.

Phoebus, however, wore a black jerkin, a testament to the previous formal events he’d attended with his family; the tradition, being, of course, to wear the darkest colors one could find. At eight, he’d once embarrassed his mother by loudly asking if they were at a funeral―when they had been at a _pendaison de crémaillère,_ something Delia had never let him forget. But this garment in particular was less lavish than those he’d seen by far; Phoebus wore his tunic underneath and had only a short, thin ruff serving as his collar. He was quite glad, though, of its more humble appearance. In his experience, the more decorated an outfit was, the more uncomfortable it would be.

The main point of both of their outfits, however, were the matching breeches they wore. Mesdame Blanc only had had time to briefly mend the bombasted hose to their measurements, and the stuffing inside made it difficult to walk, let alone _sit_ properly, but it was so clearly high-quality that the two found it hard to complain. They wore their own hose underneath, dyed hastily with crushed berries, and although it was splotchy in some places, Phoebus figured the low light in the tavern would mask the mistakes.

“I stayed up all night making them,” Mesdame Blanc said brightly, swaying on her feet slightly. “My Isabel even joined me; she did the embroidery,” she pointed out on Quasi’s doublet, then smacked herself lightly in the head. “Oh, dear, I forgot to ask if you ever wanted a codpiece!”

“A w―” Quasi tried to ask, but was cut off by a quick elbow from Phoebus, who shook his head violently.

“No, no, no codpiece, thank you,” Phoebus said hastily. Mesdame Blanc, already at the money drawer, didn’t seem to notice their exchange, and was busy adding up their charge, muttering to herself. Phoebus silently thanked her sleep deprivation.

“Now, that’s twenty _sou_ for the doublet, and the jerkin, a few _deniers_ for the rental… oh, and I have to add the Crown’s tax in, otherwise we’ll face the wrath of Henry II again…”

Phoebus blanched as he was told the total―he certainly wouldn’t be able to contribute his usual amount to he and Esméralda’s savings today. Quasi, in contrast, didn’t look even taken aback; instead, cheerily counting out his own coins. Phoebus quickly disguised his expression, hoping his friend wouldn’t have already seen it. It was bad enough Quasi knew he and Esméralda were living in an inn, he didn’t need to know their financial issues.

Soon enough, the bill was paid, and Mesdame Blanc ushered the two out, refusing to stop for any thanks. After many wishes of good health, and in the two’s case, good dancing, they departed, pockets considerably emptier. Setting off under the darkening sky, Phoebus and Quasi reached the end of the block and swung around when a shout came from behind them.

Elyot was running up to them, waving his arm and looking a little frantic. Panting slightly as he caught up to the startled two, he held up his hand and tried to regain his breathing.

“Listen,” Elyot said gruffly, “I… uh. I wanted to apologize for what happened. At the Rose and Lattice.”

He crossed his burly arms, looking off to the side. “My sister, she’s… Isabel… well, she doesn’t speak for me.”

“That’s all well and good, but why did you throw _us_ out?” Phoebus asked sharply. He was unwilling to let Elyot off the hook, and after a quick look at Quasimodo, Phoebus could tell he felt the same.

Elyot scoffed. “You don’t _know_ Isabel. She’d throw a fit sooner’n you could shut her up. Better to let the whole thing just go her way for once.”

He glanced at them and sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Elyot looked truly remorseful. “Listen. I’m not making excuses for her. I just wanted to say I’m sorry, because I sure as hell know _she_ won’t be.”

Phoebus and Quasi shared a look.

“You should be apologizing to Esméralda,” Quasi said, stepping forward. He straightened up, letting his full height tower over Elyot, who looked taken aback.

“‘Scuse me?”

“You said you wanted to apologize; well, it wasn’t us that Isabel was trying to offend. It was Esméralda. So if you really want to make things right, go talk to her.” Quasi’s voice was quiet, but it clearly had effect.

Elyot stared at him, something clicking in his expression, and nodded. Turning on his heel, he walked off without another word, face inscrutable.

Quasi let out a heavy sigh once he was gone.

“You all right?” Phoebus looked sideways at him, concerned. Quasi only met his gaze for a second before turning away.

“Esméralda’s waiting for us. We should go.”

 

Phoebus and Quasi turned to the cathedral’s direction, a cautious silence hanging in the air, and set off to face the uncertain night before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've completed some full-body references for the architects, which you can access [here](https://imgur.com/a/R2luaWz), and some concept sketches of the boys' formal wear, accessed [here](https://imgur.com/a/p1a22kP).
> 
> On a more serious note, I am deeply sorrowful concerning the events surrounding Notre Dame recently, and I hope that complete restoration of the cathedral will be possible. We must be grateful for the incredible work of the brave firefighters that helped save her, and, of course, to Victor Hugo, who helped revive interest in such a wonder those many years ago.


	5. Chapter 5

Esméralda’s jaw dropped when she saw them. Quasi and Phoebus looked at each other.

“How do we look?” Quasi hesitantly asked.

The lantern swung from her hand, making the light flicker over them and their dark surroundings as Esméralda took her time in answering. But as the seconds passed, the two could see that she was not withholding her words out of criticism, but rather she was trying to keep from laughing.

Phoebus raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

Esméralda finally burst into giggles. “I forgot to tell you that ‘dress your best’ is a bit of a joke we put in every year,” she glanced at their outfits, “but… you _do_ look good.”

“So no one else is going to be dressed up?” Phoebus reddened. Quasi elbowed him.

“We should’ve known, she’s wearing the same dress as earlier today.”

“It’s a good dress!” Esméralda protested, pushing down a smile. “And if it makes you feel better, some _do_ dress up, so we won’t stand out _too_ much on the dance floor.”

“We? I thought your ankle was hurt,” Phoebus looked puzzled. Esméralda lifted her skirts to show that her feet were free of any wraps and flexed them.

“I’m fine now. And anyway, Hanzi’s found other dancers,” she waved her hand. “Actually, I think he’ll be there, too. But unless you want to keep standing here…” she gestured around.

Quasi laughed. “Right. You’re our guide to the mysterious tavern.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time she’s led us somewhere with only a few clues to go on,” Phoebus mumbled. Esméralda smacked him playfully, sending the lantern swinging.

“A ‘few clues?’ I’m your guide right here!”

“Well, let’s hope this has better results.”

 

 _La Pomme D’Eve_ was in significantly better condition than the _Rose and Lattice_ had been. Not only was it well lit, with real beeswax candles on every table and all around the counters, it contained an empty dance floor comparable to a small ballroom, and the walls seemed untouched by the usual grime Phoebus saw at taverns.

The walls, in fact, hung an array of paintings that appeared to be Biblical; but on a closer look, Phoebus discovered that the figures were very clearly different from the icons he’d seen previously. Far from the pale, blonde characters he’d been raised with, the paintings portrayed Romani acting out their own holy scenes, joined often by a woman who appeared to be a saint. Phoebus hummed, unsure what to make of it, and was finally drawn away after taking note of the unfamiliar signature at the bottom of each work.

Though Phoebus seemed to be the only one not Romani, the rest of the crowd barely gave him a second glance when they saw he and Quasimodo were accompanied by Esméralda, although some gave his attire odd looks. He didn’t blame them―compared to the majority of the people, he was grossly overdressed, and he caught Quasi pulling at his collar more than a few times.

Esméralda eventually led them to a booth by the dance floor, and the three situated themselves as the last of the guests trickled in. As his gaze swept across the tavern, Phoebus took notice of a band setting up, fine-tuning their fiddles and guitars, and people crowding the floor. Everyone’s attention, however, was soon drawn to Clopin, who was joined by a few others who Phoebus only barely recognized.

“Thank you, all, for joining us!” Clopin proclaimed in his usual cheery voice, leaping onto a counter and gesturing grandly. “As you all know, we could not make merry without our lovely band of minstrels, so please give them a warm welcome!”

The crowd cheered and the band waved, some basking in the attention while other members ducked their heads. Phoebus clapped politely―the group seemed fairly well-known, and he wondered if he’d seen them playing at the Feast of Fools. Clopin finished up his announcements.

“… And so, let us begin our celebrations! Friends, take the floor!” he cried, sweeping his arms, and he jumped down from the counter, pulling people left and right into the center. Laughter and some “oooh’s” followed the partners as friends and foes were paired alike. Clopin must have had others ushering people onto the floor as well, because as soon as Phoebus had stood up at the indication of a man in front of him, he was yanked so hard he felt a pop in his shoulder, and was brought face to face with a girl who seemed no older than fifteen. “Everyone get to know your partners!”

“Uh,” Phoebus looked back, where Esméralda waved and resumed happily chatting with Quasi, and glanced back, “I’ve never, uh, been to this type of thing, what do I…?”

She laughed, her long black hair waving around her, and pulled a few hairpins from her dress. “If you’re worried about dancing, I’ll teach you. The band puts on easy songs at first, to get everyone comfortable.”

Phoebus relaxed. “In that case, it would be my honor to dance with you, uh…” he paused mid-bow.

“Kisaiya,” she said through a mouthful of pins, putting her hair up in preparation to dance. “But everyone calls me Kizzy.”

“Kizzy,” Phoebus finished the bow, making her giggle. He noticed Kizzy seemed considerably dressed up as well, orange silk draped around her fashionably, and latched onto it as a conversation starter. “You dressed up, too? I thought Quasimodo and I would be the only ones here.”

Kizzy sighed, putting the last pin in and shaking the wisps of hair out of her face. “My sister Dika convinces me every time that it’s a costume ball. I stopped believing her three years ago, but somehow she always tricks me into it.”

He grinned, and just as Phoebus was about to trade his own sibling story, a bell rung and a fiddle struck up a tune. Hesitating, he went to put his hands on her waist, but Kizzy shook her head.

“Hands up here,” she demonstrated, holding one hand to her waist and another in the air. Phoebus mimicked, and a drum joined in, leading others to clap along.

“And move your legs like this,” Kizzy lifted up her skirt to show the movements, and Phoebus followed along, missing a few steps. More instruments joined in, and soon an uplifting song filled the bar.

As Kizzy demonstrated over and over, Phoebus picked up the pattern, albeit not seamlessly, and managed to keep in rhythm pretty well―and after a while, he didn’t even need to look at her anymore. Phoebus silently cheered―it was a sort of social victory.

Kizzy took this as a sign she could now begin dancing her own part, and gracefully transformed her movements into those of the women around her. As Phoebus danced with her, both of them finally with their respective parts, he was able to discern the elements of the music exhibited―the high blasts of the horn reflected in the sharp turns of her head and soaring notes of the fiddle in the swinging motions. It was frankly the only useful thing Phoebus had ever learned from Music Theory, Professor Pomeroy’s insistence be damned.

But as this no longer helped him in dance, Phoebus decided to add some flare into his own choreography, now that he had it mostly down: although the ballroom dancing he’d been taught at his own manor was mostly stiff and slow, there were some moves that he could incorporate into… well, something like this.

He outstretched his hand and Kizzy neatly caught it, using it as a balance to swing herself around the floor, laughing with delight. The scarves tied to her waist fluttered and snapped about her, creating a pinwheel effect that continued on until the twirls petered out and Phoebus eventually had to pull her back up, for fear of letting her fall.

The music died down, and the crowd with it; until it finally stopped and Phoebus bowed out of habit, making Kizzy laugh again, who seemed to find it very funny. He supposed bowing to one’s partner was perhaps not as strong a tradition here as it was among the French.

“You picked it up really well!” she said encouragingly, dusting off her skirts. “Even with the small mistakes, no one gets it perfect, I almost tripped over my dress three times. And I loved the―”

What Kizzy loved, exactly, he never got to find out―but he had a suspicion it was the twirling―because at that moment Clopin called for the next dance.

“Ladies, take the floor, now!”

“I’m going to go find my sister, have fun! And don’t forget the triple step!” Kizzy said, already being separated from him by the crowd, and Phoebus waved a goodbye as he maneuvered his way out of the crowds, looking for the booth from earlier.

He heard his name called and whipped around to find Quasi sitting at a table with someone else, looking very confused as the other chattered away to him.

“ _Frederic?_ ” Phoebus exclaimed, coming over. The broad-shouldered man grinned at him.

“The one and only!”

Frederic had been in the same barracks as him and had even served the same lines in the army. The two had never been particularly close, but they shared the same mind for battle strategy; and, apparently, had both been invited to the same party.

“Quasi, this is Frederic, he served with me, and Frederic, this is Quasimodo, my friend.” Phoebus introduced him, sitting down next to him. Quasi shook hands with him. “Frederic, what’re you doing here? After you were made the military advisor, nobody saw you for years.”

“The King won’t let me out of his sight ever since the Balearics were invaded,” Frederic rolled his eyes. “Keeps stopping me to ask if he’s doing the right thing. Guess he must not be, if he’s been fighting Charles V for eight years.”

“How come _you’re_ here, then?” Phoebus asked curiously.

“Well―I’m sorry, Quasimodo, but could you leave us? The King requests ultimate secrecy,” Frederic asked, looking apologetic. Quasi’s face looked mixed, glancing at Phoebus, but he regretfully left the table. Phoebus turned to Frederic.

“What’s so top secret you have to banish my friend?” Phoebus asked, a little annoyed. Quasi wasn’t about to yell down the village about whatever his friend was here to talk about.

“Just policy,” Frederic said casually, running a hand through his hair. “If I don’t make sure of who _exactly_ this information’s going to, the whole town’s going to be knocking at my door, and frankly I don’t have time for it.”

“I see,” Phoebus said, not seeing at all. Frederic leaned back in the booth.

“So since Dom Claude Frollo died, if you can believe it, we’ve uncovered a _myriad_ of corruption in the government,” Frederic smirked at him. He knew all about Phoebus’ grudge against some officials. “About ten men immediately quit their jobs, and, because some of them were sloppy with their records, we learned _Frollo_ had appointed them. They’d been paid off by the Church, and, God bless ‘em, left once they weren’t going to get any more money.”

“ _Really?_ ” Phoebus asked incredulously.

“Most of them were from the south, but a few _were_ from the barracks,” Frederic set his jaw, trying to recall the names, “I think… Husson, and Edouart…”

“Which Edouart?” There were two in the barracks that Phoebus had known, and ironically they had despised each other.

“Both of them!”

Phoebus’ shock turned to laughter. “So if they’re busy handling that, what’s the military advisor doing here?”

“Well,” Frederic began, frowning, “the positions appointed by Frollo included the _new_ Captain of the Guard. And since he quit… we were thinking you could take over.” Frederic met his eyes cautiously.

Phoebus felt as if his surroundings had been suddenly snatched from him. He struggled to speak, gaping like a fish.

“I could… I would get my job back?”

Frederic nodded, sitting up eagerly. “Henry II is willing to look past whatever happened and reappoint you!”

It seemed like _everything_ he had ever wanted.

“But… I’d be away from the village,” Phoebus said slowly, his mind starting to turn again. Frederic shook his head.

“Right now there’s no draft for Paris. You wouldn’t even have to _fight,_ Phoebus, for God’s sake. Just sit around, look like you’ve gotten everything under control.”

It _was_ everything he had ever wanted.

“All you have to do is say yes.”

Phoebus sat back in his seat, mulling it over. It was far too early to make a decision now. He needed time, more information, and space… He looked back up at Frederic, who smiled encouragingly.

“I’ll… think about it. But I can’t say right now.”

Frederic slapped his shoulder. “There’s a good man. Now―why don’t you go show off your dancing,” he chuckled, looking at the main floor. “Go rejoin your friends.”

Phoebus, feeling a little stilted from the sudden turn of tone, hesitantly made his way to the dance floor, wondering if he could perhaps find Kisaiya or someone he knew, but none of them seemed to be in sight. The crowd twisted and turned around him, pushing him this way and that, until he tripped and stumbled, staring at the wooden floor, and was helped up. Phoebus looked up to find Quasi and Esméralda, who seemed equally surprised to find each other there, and slightly disheveled from the crowd’s movement.

This time there was no announcement from Clopin, or perhaps there had already been one that Phoebus had not heard from his shock, because a guitar quickly struck up, playing a lighthearted tune. Esméralda shrugged at Quasi, and Phoebus shook his head, trying to realign himself with reality.

“If you two are so inclined… may I have this dance?” Esméralda grinned at them, curtsying. “Unless, Phoebus, you want to go back to your friend over there,” she nodded her head back towards where he assumed Frederic was sitting.

“No, no, I―definitely not,” Phoebus shook his head, and she and Quasimodo looked a little relieved. “Now, about that dance…”

And with the song picking up, Esméralda began her own moves, whirling to the music, but Quasi looked a little unsure, trying to mimic the people around him. Phoebus, remembering Kizzy’s instructions, went to his side.

“Quasi, your hands are here,” Phoebus guided his hands in the way he’d been shown, one on the waist and the other in the air, “and I think… you move like this.”

Quasi, seeming to blush in the low light, picked up the moves quickly, although he didn’t complain when Phoebus’ hands lingered on his waist a little longer than necessary. Esméralda corrected a move every now and again, demonstrating it easily, and to her delight, the two were able to catch on quite well.

The way they were catching on, however, was different. Quasi was able to pick up more intricate patterns, but Phoebus could memorize longer stretches of dancing―and of course, Esméralda knew it all, and she could do it, quite literally, blind. It was amusing, sometimes, to see her leaping and turning skillfully and then realize her eyes were closed, lost in the music with a smile on her face. From the years of attending these dances, Phoebus assumed, she knew exactly the music that was to be played; and since she had performed as entertainment, Esméralda had likely spent hours practicing for her audience.

They were a sight to see, and as it continued, delving into deeper melodies, Phoebus suspected that what was being played was more of a movement than a standalone song. The band played on and on, people even exchanging places on the floor through the piece. The three, however, remained, and like in his previous dancing with Kizzy, Phoebus incorporated more of the dancing he’d been taught, which thankfully neither Quasi nor Esméralda seemed to mind.

As the candles dimmed down, the music turned slow and sweet, a contrast from the starting harmony, and Phoebus noticed that the partners around them seemed to be dancing closer together. Somewhat unconsciously, Esméralda and Quasi copied them, until the trio were in a dance of their own invention, holding hands and taking turns to twirl each other.

It was within one of these very twirls that Phoebus truly took the time to look at them. Esméralda’s hair swung around her along with her skirts, and Phoebus grinned as he noticed, yet again, that her eyes were closed. They fluttered open as Quasi caught her neatly, saying something that made her laugh. And Quasi―he had gained much confidence throughout the night, now practically an expert on dancing, and Phoebus’ chest swelled at the fact he had been there to see it.

Phoebus was proud, in that moment.

But like all good things, the dance eventually came to an end, and the three happily burst out of _La Pomme D’Eve,_ laughing with each other, the cool breeze a welcome contrast to the sweat on their foreheads and the stifling temperature of the bar. They were a bright presence against the dark night, three figures lighting up Paris’ dark alleys.

Free from the bar, they could have just as easily retired, but nobody wanted to leave each other just yet. So through those unsaid sentiments, Quasi, accordingly, took them back to the cathedral.

* * *

“So let’s hear some more of this famous book,” Esméralda sighed, back to the fireplace as she leaned against the warm bricks. Phoebus was curled up on the other side of the hearth on his back, he and Quasi having given the blanket to Esméralda on the grounds that she was technically wearing the least layers. However, once the three had gotten situated, the reality of their exhaustion had hit them, and now none of them wanted to get up.

Quasi slid the book over to Phoebus, skidding it across the wooden floor. Phoebus picked it up, holding it inches above him, and promptly sneezed and dropped it on his face. His friends laughed while Phoebus cursed the dust that the book had collected, and squinting, turned to a random page and made out the first few words.

“‘To desire is an evil, which vain enchants us―’”

“No, not that one, that one is sad…” Quasi said sleepily, and he waved his hand vaguely. “The, uh, the one on the next page…” His words were cut off by a yawn.

Phoebus flipped to the next page, the words twisting with the fireplace flicker. “The one about April?”

Quasi nodded and he cleared his throat. Esméralda wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, waiting for the verses.

“‘And nightingales ye now may hear, piercing clear, singing in the deepest shade… many and many a babbled note, chime and float, woodland music through the glade…’”

As Phoebus read on, his voice became more confident, and he really had to hand it to the author―the poems were quite romantic, and he could see why Quasi had pored over the book―even having traveled widely as a soldier, he found himself longing to visit these places described, these small Edens where beauty was apparently abundant. Perhaps he would visit one, one day.

Phoebus, not looking up, continued to another poem―one about a lover of the author’s, he assumed―and read on, occasionally pausing to readjust his hold on the book so it wouldn’t fall on top of him again.

He wondered why on _Earth_ Quasi was giving this to him. Regrettably, he thought, if he was given this, he wouldn’t be able to part with it easily. Delia would probably laugh at him for being so engrossed in the literature, but he was quite serious: the way the metaphors were laid, the comparisons he’d never thought to make―it was all simply genius, something Quasi must have treasured growing up, and so Phoebus would consider it as precious as anything.

And speaking of Quasi, the man in question was staring out towards the windows, where workshop met sky, with a soft smile upon his lips. Phoebus stopped reading and Quasi looked back towards him.

“Something distracting you?” Phoebus closed the book gently.

Quasi paused, looking out again, and then flitted his gaze back up. “I want to show you something,” he said earnestly, outstretching his hand, and Phoebus blinked in surprise.

Phoebus, unsure of where this was going, got up quietly as to not awake Esméralda, who seemed to be asleep. Treading across the creaky wooden floors, he joined him, and Quasi stepped to the workshop, pulling aside a curtain to reveal a small balcony.

“Close your eyes,” Quasi said, carefully stepping over a fallen blueprint, “I’ll guide you.”

Phoebus, feeling more confused by the second, took Quasi’s hand and did as he was told, being led around the table and, where he felt the wood give way to stone, onto the balcony. Quasi let go of his hand and, after confirming his part was done, opened his eyes.

Phoebus inhaled deeply. The entire city was bathed in moonlight, and glancing up Phoebus found that he was the closest to the twinkling stars he’d ever been in his life. He grinned in awe; the sky swallowing up his vision and, quite literally, the stars in his eyes.

Looking down, he drank in the vision, of the alleys cloaked in darkness and houses illuminated from inside by tiny pinpricks of light. The cobblestones were no longer visible, instead; only looked like small swatches of paint on this Parisian landscape.

“It’s like we’re on top of the world,” Phoebus breathed. “I’ve… _never_ seen the city like this.”

Quasi smiled from beside him, his happiness clear. “I showed this to Esméralda once as the sun was setting… I don’t think she quite believed what she was seeing.”

“I didn’t,” Esméralda said from behind them, and the two jumped a little. She grinned, pulling the blanket further over her shoulders as a sort of cape. “You two woke me up. Shame you didn’t invite me to see the view.”

Phoebus wrapped his arm around her shoulders, securing the blanket, and on second thought did the same with Quasi. He smiled.

After they had admired a while, Quasi had taken to pointing out some of the goings-on below them―what villagers completed certain routines based on the time, who got home at an hour, et cetera. Phoebus was astonished, how much Quasi knew about the villagers, and realized― _that_ was how Quasi had known about the fishmonger’s brother days ago. Watching from above for twenty years―he must have known near everything about the village; who had recently had children, or who had had fights with whom, even things such as new architecture built around the city. But it was no use _knowing_ if he couldn’t _experience._

“And there’s Goodwife Aliz, she hangs out the laundry around… oh!” Quasi blinked. “It must be later than I thought… she always does this around the late hours. Here―” and Quasi gestured back to the cathedral, “You should return home.”

“I suppose it must be getting late,” Phoebus frowned, and he allowed himself to be led back to the interior. Esméralda busied herself folding up the blanket while Quasi rummaged in his desk.

“I’ll send you off with the bells,” Quasi gathered up a few things in his arms. “And I expect you to take these,” he said sternly, holding out the quill, ink pots, and _Les Petit Inventions_ out to Phoebus. “I didn’t steal them from Frollo’s desk for nothing, you know.”

Phoebus sighed exaggeratedly as Esméralda helped Quasi shove the gifts into his arms, snickering. “One day I’m going to pay you back tenfold, and _then_ you’ll see.”

“See what?” Quasi amusedly asked, giving Esméralda a hug goodbye.

“I don’t know, but you will!”

* * *

Phoebus sat down heavily at his desk, moving the dripping candle closer to him. Esméralda snored softly in bed, reassuring him, and Phoebus picked up the two letters addressed to him. The first was easily identified―the looping cursive that graced the envelope belonged to none other than his sister.

 

_Phoebus,_

_The stories you tell us are quite frightening, especially of you working briefly as an apprentice to a butcher, for heaven’s sake. We realize, of course, that you have fallen on hard times. But you cannot expect our parents to drop everything and rush to your aid. Paris is miles away from us, and you already know what you must do in order to gain Mother and Father’s favor once more._

_What follows are purely their words, though written by Father._

_Come back to us. You have a good heart, this your mother and I know, but there is no need to be living with this gypsy you speak of. You know her kind; she will find a way to survive, and she will be better off without you with her, I’m sure._

_We still mandate that you will not receive a single sou until you give word of your return to Versailles. You are a de Châteaupers, now act like it! You know that a war hero of your caliber deserves better than to be living with beggars and thieves―especially in an inn. Above all, you are not to return to us unless you are rid of her._

_We know you, Phoebus. She does not._

_And this ends their message to you. I am deeply sorry._

_Do please refrain from telling any more of Esméralda. All of the family reads your letters, and Mother is especially horrified that you are “fraternizing with such a sorceress.”_

_Much love,_

_Delia._

 

Phoebus sighed heavily, resting his face in his hands. Of _course_ his family wouldn’t understand; had he really expected them to? And the remark upon Esméralda being a _sorceress_ ―she had joked about it, unknowingly, of course―and what had he said? That he was “already ensnared?” Phoebus groaned.

He grimaced and crumpled the letter. Lately the responses from his family had been doing more harm than good―and Phoebus was especially angry his family had been withholding financial support, not because they couldn’t afford to give it, which would be a poor excuse in and of its own, given how their family lay in the lap of luxury―but because they couldn’t stand the thought of him living and loving Esméralda. He sighed.

Phoebus knew he could not reply until he could think straight, which certainly wouldn’t be soon enough, and so he picked up the second letter, figuring he couldn’t feel much worse.

 

_TO: Phoebus de Châteaupers_

_Phoebus_ ―

_What follows is a list of the requirements, expectations, and general benefits concerning the new position as Captain of the Guard, if you are to apply. Salary is contained on the second page, and we certainly hope you will consider it._

_Frederic Charlus_

 

Phoebus cautiously unfolded the two pages and read over what the position entailed, which didn’t seem too different from last time he’d been enrolled. There was, of course, the threat of going to war, which he shuddered at, but Frederic was right―there _was_ no draft for Paris, not even close, and Henry II had never even said anything to create any sort of panic in France.

And like Frederic had said, there would be no reason to leave the village―to leave Esméralda and Quasimodo. His old living quarters would be offered back to him, although others weren’t allowed to share this room and board. Instead, Phoebus let himself imagine, he could convert it into sort of an office, and use his pay to buy the house he and Esméralda had been dreaming about.

His _pay_ would make life so much better. Not only would it get he and Esméralda out of their end-of-the-month inn situation, it would quell the pit in his stomach put there by hunger and fear, and, above all he would be able to spend it far more wisely than he had done previously as the Captain. The money, as well, would erase any need of his family’s inheritance at all.

Phoebus turned the paper over in his hands.

His family… yes, they would be proud. His mother and father had called him a war hero―they would be overjoyed to know that he could reclaim the title. And to think that he had reclaimed it to support Esméralda, well, perhaps they would understand. Perhaps they would be able to understand their love after a while, and―Phoebus swallowed hard―perhaps they would let him see them again.

Phoebus’ head swimming, he clutched the papers in his hands. He knew what he had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are all real poems from Remy Belleau (the author of Les Petit Inventions), although, unfortunately, I didn’t do quite enough research before deciding it was Quasi’s favorite book―apparently there’s no English translation for any of the verses in there, so I’m going to have a new project on my hands once I get hold of a copy. I also find it worth noting that I love the idea of Phoebus being quite the literature nerd.  
> I took some inspiration for the dancing from [this video](https://youtu.be/2UJu9kqk5QE).


	6. Chapter 6

As of late, Esméralda had begun noticing little remarks Phoebus had made.

Rationally, she knew that many of the villagers said much worse on a daily basis, but it was still disheartening to hear it from him. They were little things, bred and born from his position, and sometimes he would correct himself before Esméralda even could.

So Phoebus was getting better, if only a work in progress.

For example―he had implied that the gypsies had _enjoyed_ living the way they did. Logically, of course Phoebus understood their abject poverty, but of _course,_ some would say to him that they had _chosen_ this life. That the group moved not because they were forced to be nomadic, but because they were “free”―happily being outcasts. Children found this appealing; adults found it heathenry, and all of it was wrong.

Aside from all of this, Phoebus had been making more and more incorrect assumptions―but they were generally more naïve than harmful. He’d also had, since been, asking her some oddly random questions; pertaining from Roma relations to culture to situation. At this point, Esméralda had told him to make a list instead of running to her when the question had first sprung in his mind, for she and Clopin had been interrupted at the theater far too many times for any sort of storytelling to continue.

Because of this, she was convinced, Phoebus was planning something; Esméralda just didn’t know what. She assumed it was the housing situation―they had precious few days left in the inn, but something told her that it was bigger than that. She had left it alone, for now, but if Esméralda woke up _one_ more time to the sound of frantic writing and incoherent mumbling she would finally confront him.

* * *

The sound of frantic writing and incoherent mumbling indeed, although it now reached her through another. Though Esméralda still did puppet work for Clopin, he’d begun to have her collaborate on stories together, which was a surprising development because she had never heard of _anyone_ getting to know firsthand what his tales were.

The first time she had contributed, Clopin had finished his scribblings with a triumphant “a-ha!” and had handed them to her; then embarrassedly had quickly taken them back and read them out loud to her, pausing every so often to mutter “no, that isn’t right at all” and crossing it out again. Esméralda corrected holes in the story and characters, even going so far as to suggest her own ideas for the narrative, which Clopin considered thoughtfully.

She had even begun to think up her own little tales now and again, dashing to draw them out in messy stick figures before she could forget. Esméralda had only become slightly better at art in this time―now she could actually look at a note she’d made herself and have a couple of clues as to what was going on. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten some of her more complex storylines when Clopin wasn’t around to tell them to.

Her main story had been called _The Nivasi_ until Clopin had gently reminded her that the villagers were more likely to take to something that used their own language; and it had been renamed _The Little Mermaid_. Esméralda had originally attempted to follow a similar storyline to Clopin, but had given up halfway through, eventually deciding that, though she had never been, it would be set under the sea.

Clopin had performed a test version of the story one day for the children―the puppets were fairly simple; they had sewn mock fishtails onto the human dolls and reused most scenery, painting the backgrounds a deep blue instead. The villager children had seemed enchanted, mystified by the tales of these fish-people, that no doubt that they had first heard from sailing family.

Most of what they had heard before told them of sirens, of women who drove entire ships to wreck and ruin, and Esméralda knew far too well what it was to be looked upon only as a temptress―so she had devised a tale where one nivasi―one _mermaid_ ―was young, younger than her, perhaps, and who wanted nothing more than to be part of the world above her. And though she would hope and pray, that world would never dream of letting a creature like her in, and so the mermaid worked until she found a way in―through the man she had fallen in love with.

Esméralda would be lying if she had said that she took no inspiration from her own life. But there was a crucial difference―while her mermaid wanted to change entirely, Esméralda desired only acceptance. She didn't want to have to pretend to be wholly French―only to be recognized by those who were.

* * *

“You’re _what?_ ” Esméralda said in disbelief. Phoebus ran a hand through his hair, looking as if he was putting on a brave face.

“Frederic said I could, I still have to work things out with him, of course, but… yes, I would be Captain again,” Phoebus smiled, looking, strangely, a bit nervous. Esméralda squinted at him, but decided to disregard it for the time being.

“Is this why you’ve been acting… off, these past few days? I wondered what had happened after _La Pomme D’Eve,_ was this bothering you?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should take the offer,” Phoebus said, his eyes flickering between her and the floor, “but my family―uh―fully supports us, so I think I should. For us.”

Esméralda looked at him suspiciously. Why was he bringing his family into this?

“Phoebus…” she raised an eyebrow, making deliberate eye contact with him, “You’re _sure_ there’s nothing else you want to tell me?”

“No. Nope, nothing,” Phoebus said tightly. Esméralda sighed. Phoebus was pushing it. One more lie, and she would confront him for good.

“Phoebus. I’d love for you to become Captain again, but this seems too good to be true. I mean, we’re still fighting with Charles V, and Frederic says you don’t even have to _think_ about going back into battle?”

On this matter, Phoebus’ guarded look dissolved, becoming softer, and Esméralda breathed a private sigh of relief. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about Phoebus lying to her about something that was, quite literally, life or death.

“I know, I know,” Phoebus took her hands, meeting her gaze without hesitation, “I thought so too, but right now the Captain is an empty title. But the money… it’s too good to pass up. We’re almost at the end of the month―”

“I know that,” said Esméralda, irritated. She’d been doing her part, too; it’d been on her mind every day. “I just… I don’t have a good feeling about this.” Looking at the desk behind Phoebus, where the letters lay; she set her jaw, mulling it over.

“Esméralda,” Phoebus’ thumb caressed her face, and he tilted her cheek back towards him, solemn but sincere. He squeezed her hand. “I _promise._ I won’t go to war again. You have my word.”

The silence hung in the air, heavy, until Esméralda squeezed back, and she looked up at him. “All right. I trust you.”

* * *

The cottage was beautiful, sloping roofs giving way to white walls and dark framing, tall windows shining in the daylight. Esméralda, unable to believe her eyes, swore she heard birds singing as they swooped around. Djali bleated happily at her side, chewing a large chunk of grass he’d pulled up.

“Do you like it?” Phoebus asked, voice brimming with enthusiasm. He could barely contain himself, nearly bouncing on his feet as he led her to the building, the goat following close behind. Esméralda laughed, half in disbelief, casting her eyes over it.

“Where did you find this? Is this from your first _salary?_ ” she asked, openmouthed.

“I had to borrow some money from Frederic,” Phoebus admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. They trod up the stone path; dandelions and white clovers strewn across the land around it, and Esméralda was almost too distracted to hear the response.

“Wait, Frederic had _this_ much money to just… give to you?”

“… And some from the Duke of whatever-his-name-is,” Phoebus mumbled, “Who I did some fighting for a couple years back.”

“So we’re going to have an angry Duke on our hands?” Esméralda asked, her tone slightly offset by her leaning forward to gloss her hands over the wooden door set into the masonry, entranced.

“We are not,” Phoebus reassured her, pushing open the door, “because I’m pretty sure by that time he was too full of wine to notice what he was signing…”

Esméralda, deciding to ignore Phoebus’ unethical money-lending approach, stepped into the house and became, somehow, even more astonished. Djali trotted in as well, his hooves clacking quietly against the floor.

It opened onto the kitchen and living-room, the former housing a great oven and a small hearth, over which several large pots and pans hung, along with some small but decorated tables. The latter held a proper fireplace; which flickered and cast light over the roughly-hewn rocking chairs resting on the large woolen rug. The firelight was barely needed, with the light streaming in through the front and back windows, but Esméralda knew it would provide much comfort through the night.

“I never thought I would have bought _anything_ like this…” Esméralda looked around in wonder. “I couldn’t imagine living on the streets after this.”

“You’ll never have to worry about that again,” Phoebus took her hand gently. “You can count on that.”

Continuing their tour of the lower level, the winding stairs in the corner of the room soon drew their attention. “I think the bedrooms are upstairs, if you want to see them―the well and outhouse are in the back.”

Tearing her eyes away from the first level, Esméralda followed, taking her time to grip the smoothly finished banister. After scaling the stone steps, they found that the bedrooms took up the entirety of the second level; one large master’s bedroom, and smaller chambers a door away, presumably for children, or perhaps a parent or guest.

The master bedroom contained a ridiculously large bed, something that spanned at least three of the inn’s bunks pushed together. Esméralda immediately leapt onto it, stretching gratefully on the white comforter and marveling at the number of pillows that came with the bedstead. Phoebus snatched the blanket from under her, grinning.

“At least there’s so much room, you won’t be able to steal the blanket every time a cool _breeze_ blows by,” he teased, and Esméralda made a face at him.

“If anything, _you’re_ the one that takes it! I always wake up with it pulled away from me,” she protested, yanking it back.

Phoebus opened his mouth to respond when Djali hopped on the bed, and with one tug, successfully pulled the blanket away from both of them. Pushing the bedcovers around with his hoof, he finished, curling up and going to sleep.

Phoebus and Esméralda looked at each other.

 

The yard wasn’t much; mostly shrub, grass, and the occasionally sprig of flowers, but something at the side of the house caught Esméralda’s eye. The something, upon drawing closer and bending down to examine it, turned out to be a small plot of dirt guarded by some rotted wooden planks, filled with weedy-looking sprouts.

“It’s an herb garden,” Phoebus said helpfully, and Esméralda turned back to him, amused.

“Phoebus, neither of us are gardeners. What are we going to do with this?” she plucked a sprout from the soil and looked at it, unsure if it was a weed or something actually used in cooking. Rosemary, perhaps?

“I thought it would be a nice hobby,” Phoebus said, embarrassed, and Esméralda picked out a dandelion, tucking it behind his ear.

“Well, I’ll start gardening if you do.”

* * *

Phoebus paced around as he voiced his thoughts. “And you were telling me about how some of―everyone else felt unsafe, because they slept in the _streets,_ I had no idea!”

“No, it wasn’t just me,” Esméralda pursed her lips. “Most of the time we could sleep in the Court of Miracles, but others…” She held her arms, remembering the chill of the alleyways. As a child, she’d been terrified of rats, the fear stemming from once waking up to find one perched on top of her. The group that had raised her and others had done their best, but sometimes it wasn’t enough to prevent a curious rodent or two scampering around.

“So you don’t all have caravans?” Phoebus asked, turning. Esméralda inadvertently laughed―asking that was akin to wondering if every French family had their own farm.

“Only the―well, not _rich_ ―but the more… well-off of us have them. Some donated their own so that the children could sleep there.”

“And you didn’t?” Phoebus furrowed his brow. Esméralda shook her head.

“Only once or twice. Too many children, not enough space.”

“Exactly,” Phoebus said, his tone turning bright as he walked by her again. “Since I’m not doing anything as Captain of the Guard, I’m going to start helping out.”

At Esméralda’s confused look, he elaborated. “There’s no rules saying Captains can’t take on public works―Frollo called what he was doing a public _service._ ”

“So what are you proposing?”

“I thought I could start building houses for the Roma!” Phoebus stopped pacing, looking very pleased with himself. “So that nobody would have to sleep in the streets anymore, and it’d be better than the Court of Miracles because there would be _comfort,_ like beds―”

“We had _beds,_ ” Esméralda said, stung. Did Phoebus think that they were complete savages? The community may not have had the feather-stuffed four-posters Phoebus dreamed of, but they didn’t make each other sleep on the _ground._

“There’d be more than one family to a house, of course, but they’ve gotten along for this long―”

“People can still dislike each other here, too, Phoebus, it’s not just one big happy family,” she cut in. Many thought that the gypsies never had a trouble among them, that there was some sort of code forbidding them to disagree; and it only further contributed to their labels as happy outcasts.

He barely seemed to hear her. “And I asked Frederic and he said it would be all right―”

“Well, did you ask _me?_ ” Esméralda stepped towards him, trying to snap him out of whatever bubble he was in. Phoebus’ eyes focused, looking confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Phoebus, do you even know whether we’ll be able to own our houses? Whether the neighbors are going to let us _live_ in them? Or that the French don’t even recognize us as _citizens?_ ”

Phoebus looked at a loss. “I―I didn’t―”

“Phoebus―” she started to snap, then reeled herself back in. “You can’t just expect everyone to be happy with this just because you say so.”

“That’s _not_ what I was doing―”

“Yes, it was!” Esméralda exclaimed. “How about actually _asking_ what they want, instead of just following our own example? I―” she cut herself off, catching sight of the sun’s position. She was late.

Esméralda took a deep breath. “I have to go help Clopin. We need to talk about this later.”

* * *

 Esméralda and Clopin sat side by side at the desk. Clopin was muttering, his pencil flying wildly over parchment, seemingly unaware to anything that could happen inside the caravan.

Esméralda had offered to help Clopin write his plays, but now that she saw his process, Clopin would need an hour or two more before he would be able to work with her. Tapping her foot anxiously, unable to rid herself of thoughts of what had happened only minutes before, Esméralda stood and looked around inside the wagon.

It was mostly neat, his bed and a nightstand comprising most of his furniture, but closer to the desk, papers were littered around, showing half-sketched puppet designs, a few paragraphs of speech here and there, and a few torn pages. Esméralda stepped over these carefully, making her way over to the bed.

The interior was painted a dusty red, a single window casting most of the light in the room, and her gaze fell upon a portrait miniature propped up on the nightstand. The painting was so small it looked as if it had been done upon a playing card, and as Esméralda peered at it, she realized that was exactly what the canvas was.

A woman smiled indulgently at her from the card, dark curly locks of hair pulled back starkly against her pale skin, and done up in many pearls. She seemed wealthy, but Esméralda had never seen her before, and a quick glance at the words printed at the bottom gave her nothing.

“Please don’t touch that,” Clopin advised softly, and Esméralda spun around. He hadn’t looked up at her, and continued to write.

Esméralda apologized quietly, and continued her anxious pace inside the wagon, something she had picked up from Phoebus.

The writing stopped, and Clopin looked up at her, concerned. “Is everything all right?”

Esméralda bit her lip, pausing by the nightstand and tracing her finger along the edge. “Clopin…” she began, finding her words, “Phoebus got his job back.”

Clopin looked like he wanted to congratulate her, but stopped at the look on her face. “Is that… bad?”

“It’s―it wouldn’t be,” she admitted, “but he said he wanted to give the community houses, and I said he wouldn’t be able to because I didn’t know if we would be allowed, and he kept―I don’t think he realized―I don’t know. I thought… you would have something to say.”

Clopin seemed suddenly overcome with a heaviness as he put his pencil to the side and folded his hands in his lap. He stared down at them, his eyes holding unusual sorrow.

“Clopin?”

He glanced up at her, a small, sad smile on his face. “I do have a story, if you’d like.”

 

“Once upon a time, a gypsy man was performing by the side of the road, where horses often went by. The road led to a church up ahead, and sometimes people would give him alms after leaving mass.

One day, as a magnificent carriage pulled by, a woman put her head out of the window and caught sight of him. The man, mid-show, stared back at her, for this was… the most _beautiful_ woman he had ever seen. Her hair was as dark as ebony and her skin snow white. The man thought he must be going mad, for every day after, he performed at the same place again and again, hoping to catch even a glimpse of her.

She rode by more and more, giving him a smile every time, until one day the carriage stopped in front of him, and she stepped out to sit by him. The woman gave him some alms, told him her name and talked with him, something _no one_ had ever done before.

As the visits continued, sometimes they would walk around Paris, laughing and talking like they had known each other for years. They met more and more, every day, and soon… they were in love.” Clopin’s voice turned wistful; a distant look formed in his eyes.

“One day the couple bought a beautiful little cottage, with the most wonderful garden, intending to live together. The woman’s family was quite wealthy, and so she had been able to get it through her name.

But there was one problem.

The woman was French, not Roma, and her mother and father would not think she should marry someone like him even if she wanted to. And if they found out…”

Clopin composed himself, but as he spoke again, his voice became quiet.

“And _when_ they found out, their house was taken away. No one would sell to a gypsy. The man was chased off his own property and told never, _never_ to come back.”

Clopin did not continue, and his lips trembled. Esméralda tried to speak around the lump in her throat, her voice almost rasping. “And the woman?”

He looked away.

“Her family forbade her from ever seeing the man again, and she was sent away, far away… and the man never saw her again.” he finished quietly, his voice cracking.

Silence fell upon them, and for several moments, she stood still, before taking a shaky breath, putting her face in her hands.

“Clopin, I don’t know what to do.”

* * *

Esméralda stood before the cottage door, the heavy iron key swinging in her hand. The wind blew again, and she rubbed her shoulders, peering in to see the fire flickering within the house. She could even see Phoebus inside, who was pacing about, looking nervous.

She took a calming breath. It had been one fight, _one_ fight with Phoebus, and as long as they could speak clearly about it, in the long run it would only be a bump in the road.

“Uh―hey―hey!” a voice sounded from behind her, and she whipped around, carrying the key like a sword. The man at the end of the key looked startled, but somehow familiar, and as Esméralda racked her brains, he extended his hand to her.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” he said gruffly, “but―uh―my sister, Isabel, and I, we were in the _Rose n’ Lattice._ ”

“And you threw me out,” Esméralda withdrew the key from his face, but glared at him, keeping a firm grip on the metal. She wrapped her fingers around it carefully, declining the handshake.

“I was going to make Isabel get out, too, but she was havin’ a damn _fit,_ ” he folded his arms, “Was all I could do, t’not make her―”

“What are you doing here?” she gave him a hard look, trying to decipher exactly what he was up to. Esméralda needed to go back inside and talk things out again, and some tavern owner that had thrown her out wasn’t going to fix anything―and besides, this encounter was just odd enough that she was suspicious.

He paused, then cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “I just wanted to say that she―that Isabel―she did a real bad thing. I’ve let it go on for too long.”

Esméralda’s eyes widened. Out of all the things she’d expected him to say, this hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“I should’ve gone about it the right way,” he looked somewhat pained, as if this was the first time he’d ever apologized, but faithfully continued. “N’ I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can say beyond that.”

“Thank you,” Esméralda said quietly, a little shocked, and relaxed. The man seemed to be thinking hard, and rushed to say, “I, I can offer you or your friends free drinks, might not be the _cleanest,_ but…”

“I don’t need any of that,” Esméralda said quickly, “but I don’t know your name.”

The man looked a little relieved. “Elyot. Elyot Blanc.”

She held out her hand, and Elyot shook it hesitantly.

“Good meeting you. But really. If you need something…” he tried to offer again, and she shook her head.

 

Esméralda had waved him off as she turned to the doors, her mind set.

Phoebus wasn’t pursuing the right thing yet, but he would be. After all, he _did_ have their best intentions at heart, however misguided. And so did she―so both needed to set things _right._

What Clopin had described was in the past. If one man would accept her… who knew. Perhaps others would follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funnily enough, I had a dream where I watched the sequel to HoND, even though I’ve never seen it before. According to my unconscious brain, it is a very sad movie.  
> I also am modeling Phoebus and Esméralda's cottage after [this](https://www.oldhouseonline.com/.image/c_limit%2Ccs_srgb%2Cq_auto:good%2Cw_700/MTUyMDI5ODQ0NTU1NzA0MjAy/1-tudor-ohi.webp).


	7. Chapter 7

Since Phoebus had been taken up by his Captain duties as of late, Quasi was left with no one to help him clean out Frollo’s possessions. Esméralda had occasionally dropped by, but as her new stories took up more and more of her time, her visits had become few and far between. She’d mentioned something about a new project, but Quasi had barely caught what she was talking about before she’d had to go.

Quasimodo had been left, again, and he had started to become… lonely. Much to the gargoyles’ dismay.

“I don’t want to be alone again,” he said very quietly. Victor and Laverne exchanged heartbroken glances as they’d listened, while Hugo marched up to him with a determined look on his face.

“Quasi, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from seeing you three, they ain’t gonna leave ya. They care about ya, kid.” Hugo said firmly, uncharacteristically solemn. Victor placed a hand on his shoulder, looking down at him seriously.

“Phoebus and Esméralda are men and women of character. They may be busy, but that doesn’t mean they are deserting you.”

Laverne took Quasi’s other side. “If it really bothers you that much, why don’t you invite your new friends to help out? What about, uh…”

“I don’t want Guilder and Mean to come,” Hugo grumbled, crossing his arms. Victor rolled his eyes.

“Hilde and _Jean,_ if you would care to learn their names,” he scolded him. “You simply _must_ respect the other humans.”

The three dissolved into argument, with Laverne trying to separate Victor and Hugo, and soon the latter insisted that Victor didn’t control the list of people of who he respected, which didn’t include him, anyway. This had been quite a blow to Victor, and the gargoyle had glared and stomped off without another word. Hugo had looked quite pleased with himself until Laverne had made him apologize.

But Quasi had taken Laverne’s advice, and had finally let the two bubbly architects help him. Hilde and Jean had been very pleased, and perhaps a little happier than Quasi would have been if _he_ had been asked to clear out old garbage.

Now that he had two helping instead of one, the clearing-out had gone much faster, and there were now only a few boxes left in the room, containing everything Frollo had left in his desk. These were set aside from the old church records, which the Archdeacon had deemed too important to throw out. They were old, flea-bitten documents, but Quasi supposed that they had to be helpful in some right, even if some looked as if they would disintegrate upon being touched.

“The last window came in today, Quasi!” Hilde said happily, heaving a box from the pile and setting it on the floor with Jean, “Gilet told me that the Archdeacon is having it put in today after the compline prayers.”

“Really?” Quasi asked excitedly, dropping the former judge’s paraphernalia. “I thought Master Neri said that it would take an extra week.”

Hilde unfolded the box covers and started wheezing on the dust, so Jean answered for her.

“We made it a rush order for you,” Jean said airily, winking at him, “Don’t thank the man too much, though, he’ll pull you into _quite_ the conversation. All he talks about nowadays is his son.”

“Oh, Antonio?” Quasi said interestedly.

“The very one,” Jean huffed, “Thinks he’s going to be the next great craftsman.”

“Well, he hasn’t got much of a choice, does he? How many glassblowers here do you know?” Hilde pointed out, then cleared her throat. “You’re just jealous because you can barely draw a picture, let alone mold window-glass.”

Hilde was right in some aspects. Jean worked on structural integrity; he had no artistic inclinations, or at least none they were aware of. Jean had no response to this, looking disgruntled, and Quasi muffled a laugh behind his hand, returning to sorting through the box. Most of his haul was old notes about issues long past resolved, some were half-written speeches or prayers.

“Anyway, _speaking_ of the next greatest craftsman,” Hilde continued, “we were hoping we could invite him to dinner and drinks.”

Quasi glanced up. Hilde and Jean were looking at him. “... Me?”

“Who else?” Jean said amusedly. “Antonio Neri?”

Hilde smacked his arm and turned back to Quasimodo. “What do you think? Tonight, after we see the window put up? We’ll head over to the Rose and Lattice.”

“I actually can’t go there,” Quasi admitted, reddening. “I was banned.”

“What?” Hilde and Jean exclaimed, looking incredulous.

“A barmaid insulted Esméralda and poured water on us,” he deadpanned. “When she wanted an apology, the barmaid’s brother drove us out… although he did apologize later,” Quasi conceded.

Jean blinked. “I see. Then… I could suggest the Pannier.”

“You mean the bakery?” Quasi frowned, tilting his head. As far as he knew, there was no restaurant attached to the bakery, although it _was_ in the marketplace.

“Monsieur Moreau has a quaint little space in the back. If you know to ask, he can give us a table that’s… secluded.” Jean said meaningfully, although Quasi didn’t quite know what he was hinting at. The thought that perhaps Jean and Hilde didn’t want to be seen with him struck his mind, but he firmly put it aside. He tried not to think like that now.

“I’ll go,” Quasi smiled.

* * *

“Quasi!” Esméralda beamed as she rushed up to him. Quasimodo waved to her and excused himself from the tradesman he was speaking with, then joined her outside by the cathedral doors.

“Esméralda! Aren’t you performing with Clopin?” he peered at where the two normally gathered. She waved it away.

“In a moment. We―Phoebus and I―wanted to invite you to our housewarming. Or a _pendaison de crémaillère,_ as he says. It’s a _tradition_ in his family,” Esméralda rolled her eyes, mimicking the uppity tone Phoebus sometimes came into when discussing such matters. “We’ve never done one, so we wanted to make sure you would come.”

“Really? Who else?”

“Clopin, Frederic, and a few others. Even Phoebus’ sister Delia is coming, although I think he said his parents couldn’t.” Esméralda smiled at him. “So how about it? Tonight? You’d be a little late, because it’d start in the afternoon, but we’d still want you to come.”

Quasi’s heart sank. “Oh no… Esméralda, I would love to go, but I’m―I’m already getting drinks with Jean and Hilde tonight.” As the words left his mouth, he looked at the ground, feeling it a pitiful excuse.

Esméralda’s face fell, although she tried quickly to disguise it. “Oh. Well. If―if you decide otherwise, we’ll always welcome you. You know where we are now.” She rubbed the bracelet on her wrist, her mouth twisting, until she looked back up. “Goodbye, Quasi.”

Esméralda trudged back to the puppet booth, and Quasi regretfully returned to the cathedral, picking the trade back up.

 

Quasi, Gilet, Jean, and Hilde were making their final rounds around Notre Dame as the last of the compline prayers dragged on. Over the few months that had passed, the cathedral’s repairs had become more evident. With sponsorship from the clergy, including a particularly generous donor, and the general almsgiving, the building looked almost perfectly restored.

“So Hilde put the donations from the DelCroixs to good use, I know she replaced the doors, windows, and gargoyles,” Gilde crossed an item off his list, looking over the stained glass. “Hilde, you partnered with Quasimodo to commission the windows, correct?”

Hilde gave an affirmative nod. “Some had shattered from the heat. And I replaced the doors the week after the attack on Notre Dame.”

“Great, I’ll mention that to Archdeacon Dupin,” Gilet made a note. “And Jean, remind me of the specifics on your part?”

“I took note of the wood damaged by the fire, as well as the stone that was scorched or melted by the copper,” Jean said patiently, though looking hurt that Gilet hadn’t remembered his work, “I made sure that the interior wasn’t going to collapse as soon as we introduced a congregation into the church again. Oh, and I replaced the broken pillars. The gold from the late judge’s awards paid for most of it, although the alms went into the fund, too.”

As Jean finished speaking, the Archdeacon, hobbling by on his cane, concluded the prayers and led the altar servers out. The bells rang from the tower―an enthusiastic girl called Sibilla had recently taken to the task, relieving Quasi of the duty when he needed to be working. Sibilla had been very excited to take over for him, and the gargoyles doted on her―when she wasn’t looking, of course. The statues were still hesitant to reveal themselves to anyone who wasn’t Quasi, Phoebus, or Esméralda.

Gilet scribbled something on his list and looked up as the parishioners filed out, each silently bowing their head. “And Quasimodo…”

“I made sure that the replacements were true to the original cathedral,” Quasi said modestly. “I also worked with Jean to make sure that they would be up to date as well.”

“And you designed the new windows,” Hilde reminded him.

“And the gargoyles!” Jean exclaimed. Some of the parishioners threw him a dirty look, and he hastily lowered his voice. “Um. The gargoyles, as well.”

“Yes, well, some friends of mine helped with that,” Quasi rubbed his neck, trying not to laugh. _Helping_ was a strong term. Victor, Laverne, and Hugo had argued for an hour about whose design was better-fitting the cathedral, each wanting the new gargoyles to be modeled after themselves. Eventually he’d had to pick one of the simpler grotesques’ designs to avoid taking sides.

“Regardless, I’ll put it in for you,” Gilet waved his words away, scrawling on the parchment. He was about to say something else, a commending remark, perhaps, when Hilde grabbed his arm and pointed.

“Gilet, look!”

Through the doors, a group of men were heaving a roughly-wrapped package over their heads. A thin, hassled-looking man stood in front, directing them, along with a bored boy lounging by the pillars.

“To the right, please―no, a little more, no, no, you’ll break it! Here, let me―” he rushed forward, taking the window, and continued the pace inside the cathedral.

“Ah, that must be Master and Young Master Neri,” Gilet said, relieved, and quickly rushed to join them. Quasi, Jean, and Hilde remained by the Archdeacon, who had come back in and taken over directing them.

As the window was fully brought in, the Young Master Neri and his father worked to unwrap the glass, until the final papers fell, revealing the display.

“David and Jonathan,” Jean whispered reverently. Hilde seemed stunned, transfixed by the work.

They watched as it was raised into the air, Master Neri biting his nails all the while, and fixed into the framing, the shadows of the workers cutting across the glass projection on the floor. As the men stepped back, the job finished, the onlookers were enveloped in the rich, colorful sunlight shining through.

At the end of the row of stained glass windows, David and Jonathan embraced each other. Their faces gazed up towards heaven, robes billowing out around them, as the white glass stars shone down upon them, lighting up the deep sky.

It was _perfect,_ Quasimodo thought, and the glowing red sunset only served to beautify the work more, turning the glass colors into shades they’d only dreamed in. Everyone in the cathedral stood and stared, silent, as if waiting for the men to come down from the panels and walk among them.

It had seemed hours―but was likely only a few minutes―before the workers began to disperse, then the Neris, and then the Archdeacon and Gilet, until Quasi, Jean, and Hilde were left alone. The only thing marking that people had even trode there was the faint smell of incense drifting through the church.

As though rising from a stupor, Jean struggled to speak, then finally managed, “So… about those drinks?”

 

The sun had nearly finished setting, and the Pannier seemed closed, but sure enough, after Jean knocked quietly, the door swung open, and Monsieur Moreau ushered the three inside. Although Hilde seemed to try and hide her actions from Quasi, he frowned as he saw her hand over a large sum of money to the baker.

Jean had said that he could provide a secluded spot for them, but Quasi saw nowhere where they could have dinner. The bakery was a somewhat stuffy place, with lots of windows to counteract the many clay ovens, and the floor was studded with scorch marks and bits of burned bread. He still was pondering this when Monsieur Moreau guided them through the room and to a door, which he opened onto a large open room.

This was the bakery’s opposite―the floor was clean and neatly swept and the temperature instead pleasantly warm, no doubt heated by the ovens on the other side of the wall. A fireplace stood in the middle of the room, casting a flickering, glowing light onto the tables surrounding it.

The tables, in fact, were very small, appearing to hold only two or three, and were all covered with large white cloths and glasses of flowers. Just a few others were in the room; all couples looking dreamily at each other. They seemed absorbed in themselves, and barely even cast a spare glance at the three before returning to their partners.

Jean pulled out seats for both Quasi and Hilde before sitting down and speaking quietly. “So, Quasi, how on Earth did you get the idea for David and Jonathan?”

“The design was beautiful,” Hilde sighed, “but even I couldn’t have thought to put them in the cathedral. And with such incredible colors…”

“It took some trial and error,” Quasimodo admitted, then realizing, “I think I left my sketches in my bag, actually―would you like to see them?”

“Yes!” Jean and Hilde chorused, and Quasi pulled out the papers from his bag on the floor, spreading them neatly on the tablecloth. The papers showed David and Jonathan’s original poses, colors, etc―some had the two men worshipping separately, some even depicted their families, but it was clear, even before Quasi had started incorporating color, that the panel was to show complete devotion.

“Jean, Jean, look at this one,” Hilde pulled out one of the charcoal sketches. Quasi reddened.

“Oh, you don’t―you don’t want to see that one,” he said, but it fell upon deaf ears. The drawing depicted David mourning Jonathan’s death, and Quasi had drawn it in a rather sorrowful mood. Jean gazed at it thoughtfully, about to say something, when the baker came by to take their orders, writing them down on a chalk slate.

Hilde asked for a rather complicated-sounding soup and a quarter of a baguette, while Jean ordered leeks and boiled potatoes, and Quasi, after being prompted, decided on fish cassoulet while gathering the drawings back into his bag.

 

“I just don’t know why you deny your involvement, Quasimodo,” Hilde was protesting, eyes fierce as she motioned with her baguette. Jean nodded along. “You’ve helped the cathedral recover so much more than you wanted to tell Gilet.”

“Why wouldn’t you want the credit?” Jean asked curiously. He shooed away Hilde as she attempted to steal some of his leeks. Quasi sighed, fretting with his hands―he’d picked it up from Esméralda.

“The hot copper I poured down… it damaged so much. The windows, some of the pillars, _I_ did that,” he said guiltily, looking down at the remains of his cassoulet. “I don’t want to be praised for something I did to hurt Notre Dame, even if I am trying to repair it.”

The two were silent until Hilde spoke. “Frollo would have done much worse.”

“Nobody blames you, Quasi,” Jean said, folding his arms. “The rest of us didn’t even _know_ what he was doing, until that night. But you did, and even though Frollo’s soldiers were breaking down the doors, you didn’t run. You didn’t let him win. You were―are―a hero.”

“Thank you,” Quasi said quietly, looking up at them. His hands stopped fidgeting, and he laid them on the table. “I’m―I’m glad that someone beside Phoebus and Esméralda thinks so.”

“Both of us do,” Hilde leaned forward. “Quasi, we were so excited to hear you would work with us. It isn’t every day you meet someone who saved a city. You’re special.”

Hesitating only slightly, Hilde reached forward and took Quasi’s hand. Glancing at her, Jean took the other. Their hands were warm and just a bit sweaty in his own, and Jean squeezed his palm softly.

“We were hoping… that we could keep doing something like this,” Jean suggested, brown eyes locking with his. “If this isn’t too forward.”

Something clicked in Quasi’s brain.

 _Oh._ This had been what all the looks were about. Why they had invited him to dinner, why they were so happy to help, why everything…

Quasi didn’t quite know how to react. He knew no one who had ever harbored romantic inclinations towards him; much less _two_ people. Jean and Hilde were very sweet and clearly very accepting, and for a moment―just a moment―he could picture what loving them would be like.

Waking with them, perhaps in Hilde’s large manor or Jean’s crowded family house, on peaceful mornings. Hilde would drink whatever specially-imported beverage she’d taken a liking to that week, Jean would make breakfast for his family as they would crowd around the table.

And in working together, maybe they would hold hands under the table and see how long it would take Gilet to notice, laughing under their breath all the while. It would take a little while for the gargoyles to get used to seeing the three of them together, but they would accept it.

At dinner, they would eat at places like the Pannier, with candles illuminating them as they would speak and enjoy, and the villagers would turn a blind eye. They would end their day and wake the same way.

But Quasi knew he could not fill those acts with the same kind of love they held for him. 

So he removed their hands from his, trying to be as gentle as possible.

“Jean, Hilde…” he paused, mulling over his thoughts, “I’m―flattered―but I don’t… I don’t feel the same way.”

He looked up at them. Hilde and Jean appeared appropriately embarrassed.

“We’re sorry,” Hilde said hastily, “We just thought―that you might return our affections. We thought that if we set this up, as a courtship…”

“Wait, wait,” Quasi said, blinking and trying to get his bearings, “What? I do this with Phoebus and Esméralda all the time, what do you―”

Hilde gasped, and Jean’s eyes widened.

“Oh! We didn’t realize Phoebus and Esméralda were already courting you,” Jean quickly explained, looking mortified.

“Oh, I didn’t―” Quasi tried, but Hilde spoke again over his repeated denials.

“And on the night of their _pendai_ ―their housewarming, too…” Hilde worried. “Quasi, we’re so sorry, you _must_ go to them!” she insisted.

“No, really, I-I don’t think―they don’t―” Quasi stuttered, but they were having none of it. Jean picked up Quasi’s bag and put it into his arms.

“You can tell them we’re very sorry, we didn’t realize you were taken―hopefully they won’t hate us too much,” Jean said anxiously, and Quasi awkwardly stumbled out of the bakery to Hilde and Jean’s repeated apologies.

* * *

 Quasi caught his breath when he was safely out of the range of the Pannier’s windows, propping himself up by a hand on the nearest alley wall. The cool night air rushed against his face and, hopefully, was bringing his face back to normal, rather than the flaming red it had been moments before.

It had all gone so fast that he could barely process one thing to the next. One minute he had been trying to let down Jean and Hilde lightly, the next he had been told Phoebus and Esméralda were trying to court him―no, _no,_ that wasn’t right. Quasi ran a hand through his hair.

Jean and Hilde had surely made a mistake. After all, friends ate together all the time. Friends attended dances, they read books with each other and gave gifts… So, then, Phoebus, Esméralda, and Quasimodo were no different.

But doubts to this began to creep into Quasi’s mind. Quasi, pushing himself off of the brick wall and setting off for Phoebus and Esméralda’s house, resolutely did _not_ think about the long glances they gave, the lingering touches they left, how he felt with them… it was better not to.

 

Just as Quasi had knocked on the door, a prim-looking woman had opened it, and drew back very suddenly.

“Phoebus, someone is here. I believe it’s your… friend,” the woman called back, never taking her eyes off him. Quasi gave her a hesitant wave. Was this the sister Esméralda had mentioned?

She certainly looked like Phoebus, although that was where the similarities seemed to end. The woman’s long and curly blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her blue eyes dared him to do anything out of the ordinary. A cloak was pulled around her, as though she had just been going, and she looked as though in any other situation she would have been rather nice. Quasi, apparently, had had the misfortune to catch her at an inopportune time.

An anxious Phoebus appeared at the door, quickly relaxing when he saw Quasimodo.

“Oh, Quasi! Come in, we were hoping you would get here. Although… rather late, my friend. Everyone else’s left.”

Quasi was ushered in past the woman at the door and quickly introduced.

“Quasi, this is Delia, my sister. Delia, Quasimodo. He was the man who saved Notre Dame from Frollo,” Phoebus clapped him on his shoulder. “We owe him a great debt.”

Quasi withheld a wince, not from the touch, but from the praise. Something told him Delia didn’t care whether he had saved the King himself, and he didn’t really need Phoebus attempting to make up for it.

Delia studied him as she shook his hand. “I see. Well, Quasimodo, I was just about to leave. May we meet again under better circumstances.”

“Better…? Did something happen?” Quasi looked back between her and Phoebus.

“No, nothing,” Phoebus said tightly. “Our parents are―sick―and couldn’t make it. Delia is taking care of them.”

“And I had better get back,” Delia finished, stepping over the threshold and out the door. She inclined her head in what could be mistaken for a friendly nod. “Goodbye, Phoebus.”

The door swung shut, and Quasi turned back to see Phoebus looking nervous and Esméralda looking just as vaguely confused as he felt.

“... Anyway, hello, Quasi, weren’t you supposed to be with Hilde and Jean?” Esméralda frowned, latching the door shut and guiding him and Phoebus to the loveseat in front of the fire. “I thought you were supposed to be getting drinks with them. I think we might have something lying around, though, if you’re hungry.”

“Not that we’re complaining,” Phoebus added, grinning. “We’d much rather have you here.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need anything.” Quasi paused before explaining, trying to break the news as delicately as possible. He shifted on the cushions. “And I was, but it got… cut short. They, uh, wanted to court me―”

“They _what?_ ” Esméralda and Phoebus looked thunderstruck.

“Yes, and I turned them down,” Quasi said hastily.

“Well, of course,” Phoebus said, looking troubled. “I mean―you didn’t _want_ to be courted by them, did you?”

“No,” Quasi reassured him, wondering why Phoebus was taking such an interest, anyway. Phoebus and Esméralda were already courting, if their purchase of a house together was anything to go by.

“How did they take it?” Esméralda asked cautiously, peering at him.

“Um, fine,” Quasi said, which was mostly truthful. Their mistake in assuming Phoebus and Esméralda were courting him counted against the “mostly.”

“Wait, were they trying to court you separately, or at the same time?” Phoebus’ leg bounced with nervous energy. Esméralda put a soothing hand on his thigh and it stopped, although Phoebus still seemed anxious.

“I―I don’t know? At the same time, I think. Can we not talk about Jean and Hilde right now?” Quasi felt uncomfortable, and as he saw the others’ faces, he knew they hadn’t felt any better discussing the architects, either.

“Yes, of course,” Esméralda’s shoulders relaxed, and she shot a look at Phoebus, “in fact, Phoebus, why don’t you tell Quasi about your new armor?”

Phoebus cleared his throat, seeming relieved to change the subject. “Yes―well, uh―I sold my old pieces and I had no idea where they went…”

Although stammering at first with the quick topic change, Phoebus quickly picked up steam, and Esméralda smirked affectionately. Neither she nor Quasi was particularly educated in armor nor weaponry―the most Quasi knew about such matters was the archangel Michael’s flaming sword―and it was endearing to see him so invested.

“And so Frederic had to commission someone―I was hoping they’d take some inspiration from Grosschedel, because the Germans make the _best_ armor…”

* * *

 Quasimodo woke with a start, still on the couch. The fire in the fireplace had been reduced to a few glowing embers, and the only light in the house was from the moon streaming through the shutters, covering everything in a soft white haze.

Phoebus and Esméralda still dozed on the couch with him as well―the three must have fallen asleep together. As Quasi gently dislodged Phoebus’ head from his shoulders, he faintly stirred, making a soft noise somewhere in between a snore and a sigh. Being as quiet as possible, something he’d learned to be in the cathedral, Quasi rose slowly out of the cushions and stood.

Quasi looked at them, his heart thumping in his chest. He breathed a weary sigh and turned, though unwilling to leave the sleeping two. He couldn’t bring himself to part with his friends just yet, and Quasi quietly opened the shutters to look out at the slumbering night, leaning his elbows upon the windowsill.

No. He had to leave, debating this was foolish. Phoebus and Esméralda did not need a guardian, did not need Quasimodo with them. And after all― _Notre Dame_ needed Quasimodo. _Notre Dame_ needed him to ring its bells and upkeep its chambers, and―and to stay. To stay exactly where he was, unchanging. Like stone.

But Quasi _wasn’t_ stone. He was human, too, and right now everything was changing, and he so, so badly wanted to stay, not at the cathedral, but with _them._ With Phoebus and Esméralda. With the people he trusted.

And it took so much of Quasi’s strength to close the shutters, gather his bag, and reach for the doorknob, when―

“Quasi?”

Esméralda stood, blinking away sleep, and Quasi’s stomach dropped. She joined him at the window, puzzled. “Why are you leaving?”

“I have to,” he said quietly, and it felt like a punch in the gut. “I―Notre Dame. I have to ring the bells.”

“I thought Sibilla was taking care of that,” Esméralda tilted her head, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Didn’t she volunteer?”

On cue, bell-ringing echoed from the tower. Quasi turned from the window. No, no, no, this wasn’t going like he needed it to, this wasn’t easy like he needed it to be.

“I don’t―I don’t _know._ I-I-I’m so confused, I’m _sorry,_ ” Quasi shook his head, backing away. Esméralda’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Whoa, whoa, Quasi, hey, is there something happening up there?” she motioned up to Notre Dame’s bell tower.

“No, no, there’s nothing,” Quasi said, wishing he could curl up into a ball and disappear. “It’s not―that’s not―what I’m confused about.”

Esméralda looked back and forth between him and Phoebus, connecting the dots. “You’re confused about… us?”

Quasi nodded, too embarrassed to say anything.

“Quasi… I don’t know why you’re confused, you know we want you here,” Esméralda said softly, placing her hands on his arms. “I know sometimes you don’t think so, but we do.”

She paused. “And as long as you want to stay here… we want you to, too.” Esméralda hesitantly let go of him.

Quasi swallowed hard. “I do. I―I want to.”

It seemed like the hardest thing he’d ever had to say. But with it came a great relief.

Esméralda kissed his cheek and drew back, giving him a soft smile. “Then stay.”

 

And Quasi stayed, and later on, he wondered, if this was what Jean and Hilde had wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, Phoebus and Esméralda’s project isn’t being ignored. Quasi simply doesn’t know about it yet.  
> Also - whether David and Jonathan’s relationship was romantic or platonic is unsure, but what remains of their story are people who, throughout all their lives, remained devoted to each other no matter what. It’s a tribute to unyielding love, which I think is particularly important to Quasi, Phoebus, and Esméralda’s story.


	8. Chapter 8

It was very, very early in the morning, and although Phoebus had gotten up to use the outhouse, he had gotten sidetracked and found himself upstairs at his desk, bent over a piece of paper and steady candle-light.

Quite a bit had happened only hours ago, and Phoebus knew he wouldn’t be able to get it off his mind unless he recorded it. It had been a lot―some good, some bad―but if Phoebus wanted to return to the couch to sleep, he had to write it down.

* * *

The _pendaison de crémaillère_ had started at around six in the afternoon, and as more of the guests had trickled in, Phoebus found the house growing steadily noisier. Besides Quasi, who couldn’t make it (he was having drinks with _Hilde_ and _Jean,_ Phoebus remembered irritably), they had invited Frederic, Ruslo, Clopin, Kizzy and her older sister Dika, and Pierre Droit, a fellow soldier that Frederic had brought along, and who Phoebus vaguely recognized. Even a few of the men who had worked on the house had been invited as a show of gratitude, although Djali had been put upstairs, both to prevent him from making any mischief and to avoid causing him too much anxiety, with all the people and noise.

Frederic and Pierre had quickly been recruited by Dika and Kizzy to make the housewarming meal. The four were an unlikely group, but worked well together; Pierre and Dika both excelled at cooking; Kizzy loved taste-testing and giving instructions; and Frederic good-naturedly took orders from the fifteen-year-old. Despite the three adults being managed by a child, the kitchen was soon full of laughter and delicious smells.

While dinner was being made, housewarming gifts, not including the food the guests had brought to aid the meal, stacked up on the table. Surprisingly, all of the presents had been wonderful―Phoebus and Esméralda hadn’t thought about returning a single one. Even more pleasing was the fact that they were all fairly practical, excluding Clopin’s gift of wind chimes, although Esméralda had informed him the gift was fairly traditional in India.

The only gift Phoebus had specifically _asked_ not to receive was furniture. The house that the Duke―of _Albret,_ Phoebus had learned―had allowed Phoebus to purchase had come generally furnished, although this had mostly been a testament to his drunkenness, not generosity. Phoebus’ request for money had been met with a hard slap on the back, a signing and stamping of a note, and a long, winding confession about how Phoebus was his most faithful and favorite servant.

Phoebus had never served the Duke of Albret, but he wasn’t about to argue with his magnificent wealth… and insobriety. It would be impolite, after all.

But the housewarming gifts the guests had brought would do the house well. Ruslo, a Romani friend of Esméralda’s, who Phoebus had blearily remembered carrying him to the bell tower, had brought hand-carved utensils. Phoebus had admired them, wooden wares with simple flowers etched into the bases, and though they were far from the polished-silver ones he’d grown up with, he preferred Ruslo’s better. They felt less like his old house, and more like his new home―and Lord knew Esméralda had never enjoyed this luxury.

Frederic had walked in next, bringing beeswax candles, which Phoebus had appreciated immensely. Frederic was one of the few soldiers, besides Nicholaus, that had known of Phoebus’ writing habit, and one of the fewer that had supported it. The high-quality candles wouldn’t stink up the house like the tallow ones tended to do, lasted longer, and burned brighter. These would prove very useful in the event that Phoebus would stay up late writing letters, which happened more than he cared to admit.

Following Frederic, Pierre had introduced himself with a shy handshake, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, which Phoebus appreciated. The bread certainly added something to the pantries, which had been mostly devoid of food and instead filled with loose ingredients, and the wine, a gift that couldn’t go wrong, could be shared at the party.

Half an hour later, Kizzy and Dika had brought flowers and a very pretty vase, which Kizzy had insisted on holding. He had finally met Dika, who had insisted on seeing the twirling dance he and her sister had performed at _La Pomme D’Eve._ Kizzy and Phoebus took great delight in exaggeratedly demonstrating the moves, though they had nearly knocked into Clopin, who had been entering.

The builders had arrived last, but did not bring any gifts―the house was a gift in and of itself, and frankly Phoebus knew that he and Esméralda would have felt guilty if one of them had tried to present them with something. Their work had been enough, even if the group as a whole was rather quiet.

 

After fastening the wind chimes outside, Clopin had taken it upon himself to perform several prayers to the deity Vāstoṣpati, who, he had informed them, was a god of the house and home. The chants generally asked for Vāstoṣpati to provide protection to the inhabitants of the room, to banish evil, and to hold the land where the house had been built in high respect. The prayers seemed fairly regular, starting and stopping at each doorway in the house, and Clopin recited them each in Romany and French, so that both Esméralda and Phoebus would be able to understand them.

As he maneuvered around the house, it became apparent that Clopin knew his way around it well, though he’d never been invited in before, and it had fairly puzzled Phoebus―even _he_ forgot where the rooms were sometimes. Later Esméralda had mentioned hesitantly that Clopin had lived in the house before, although she seemed a bit quiet when Phoebus had wondered about the details.

But after the prayers were performed, Phoebus felt even more at home―something surprising, considering that where he grew up, there was no annual reciting in Romany, not unless you wanted to get rapped over the knuckles for speaking in tongues. He knew that although he and Esméralda may not have worshipped the deity personally, it clearly meant a lot to Clopin, and anything that was important to Clopin, they respected.

 

When the ceremony was concluded, Clopin joined the rest of the builders in conversation, who seemed to welcome his quiet spirit, and Phoebus, hoping to get a short break, stepped outside for a breath of evening air.

He had only just crossed the threshold when a lone package on the ground caught his eye, and as Phoebus examined it, he found no note nor stamp that could have identified the sender. Upon bringing it inside and unwrapping the brown cloth carefully, he discovered three large pewter mugs, each bearing what seemed to be a checkered-rose insignia.

“A rose, and a…? Oh!” Phoebus traced the design, surprised, “Thank you, Elyot.”

He had put the interesting gift by Ruslo’s utensils and had hardly gotten a chance to tell Esméralda about it when his long-awaited visitor had arrived.

“Phoe―?” Delia, stepping into the hall cautiously, had been immediately pulled away, out of sight of the rest of the house. She tugged her arm away from Phoebus and readjusted her grip on the cloak in her arms.

“Delia! What are you wearing?” Phoebus hissed, his eyes nervously darting back between her and the rest of the party.

“I haven’t seen you for a year, and _that’s_ how you greet me?” Delia fixed him with a critical eye. Phoebus didn’t normally feel self-conscious, but he could tell that Delia was noticing every less-than-perfect aspect of his clothing, his hair, and his house. He knew she didn’t _mean_ to―Phoebus had done the same thing after growing up with his family―but it hurt.

“I just―I thought you were doing to dress casually,” Phoebus said, a little panicked.

Delia looked blankly at him. “This _is_ informal wear,” she said, smoothing her clothing. Nothing could have said “informal wear” less―pearls glistened in her hair and on her neck, and sleeves of satin draped over her arms. “Phoebus, I’ve just come from a very important tea with our parents. I could only change so quickly.”

Sometimes Phoebus forgot how shallow his family could be.

“And _speaking_ of our parents,” Delia continued, “If they catch me here, I will get a _sharp_ notice. So you’d better not claim anything stupid,” she eyed him.

Phoebus scoffed. “What, like saying you’re on my side? That’d be a lie.”

“I _am_ on your side,” Delia said reproachfully. “I’m here, aren’t I? And besides, we’re already claiming our parents have taken ill. One more lie couldn’t hurt.”

Phoebus decided not to get into what would surely be an argument and instead guided her to the restroom. “Nevermind. Just please take that jewelry off. Put it in your cloak or something.”

“Why do _you_ care so much?”

“I―Esméralda doesn’t know about where I come from,” he said quietly. “Well―she knows I have a… well-off family. But nothing else regarding our finances.”

Delia raised her eyebrows. “Risky move, Phoebus.”

“I know,” Phoebus said grumpily, “I _will_ tell her. Just not right now _._ Please just go look like your average artisan’s daughter.”

After Delia took off as much jewelry as she could―excluding her wedding ring―she placed them in her pockets. As for her expensive clothing, there wasn’t much to be done besides button up the cloak and hope it wouldn’t get too hot. Phoebus had deemed her looking lower-class, which Delia hadn’t appreciated, and had given her the go-ahead to the party.

“Esméralda! Look who showed up!” Phoebus called out as cheerily as possible, Delia following behind. “My sister!”

Esméralda turned from the crowd and rushed over, beaming. “Hello! Delia, right? Phoebus hasn’t told me much about you, but I’m so glad you’re here!” she exclaimed. Phoebus withheld a snicker. He knew Esméralda _was_ excited to meet Delia, but she had been plotting all sorts of ways to get embarrassing childhood stories about him out of his sister all week.

Delia smiled at her and shook her hand. “Pleased to be here. And these are your… friends?” she looked around at the other Romani, who were still conversing.

Esméralda either didn’t notice the pause or ignored it, because she laughed and agreed. “Along with my employer, Clopin. Although I’d say by now we’re _all_ working together.”

“Oh? How so?” Delia asked, genuinely curious. Phoebus felt his stomach drop.

“Well, don’t tell any high-ranking officials about this, they might have to put a stop to it,” Esméralda chuckled, “but Phoebus and I are working on a housing project. You live outside of Paris, right?”

“We live in Reims,” Delia nodded.

“Exactly. I’m not sure if you’ve heard about―”

“The Notre Dame cathedral? Of course,” Delia frowned. “Such a tragedy.”

“Yes,” Esméralda said patiently, “But the late Judge Frollo who was responsible for the burning also displaced our population and left many of us without shelter. So we’re working on giving the Romani new homes.”

Delia blinked. “Oh my. That’s… quite the task.”

Phoebus saw by her look that Delia was going to have _words_ with him as soon as she could, but by a happy surprise, those words were thankfully delayed.

“Everyone! Start washing up, dinner is ready! Phoebus, could you help set the table?” Frederic called out to the room. Phoebus gave a guilty smile to Delia and, relieved, rushed to the kitchen and began stacking platters.

As the guests gathered around the table, chatting happily, Phoebus and Pierre placed plates, cups, and utensils, which ended up being a mismatched mix of home-brought, repurposed tools, and Ruslo’s gifts. The guests didn’t seem to notice, except Delia, who viewed her fork with curiosity, so Phoebus supposed it was fine.

“Dinner time!” Kizzy sang, leading Dika and Frederic in setting out dishes. Phoebus sat back in his chair alongside Esméralda and inhaled deeply, enjoying the smells. The partygoers ooh’d and ah’d once the food was put down, bringing triumphant grins to the cooks’ faces.

Before they could eat, wine was poured―which, thankfully, was just enough for half a glass for everyone―and a cheer for a toast emerged, making them laugh. Phoebus and Esméralda looked at each other, smiling, and stood up. Phoebus couldn’t have frowned if he’d wanted to. With a hearty meal awaiting him in a beautiful house, not to mention he and Esméralda were finally secure… it was a perfect moment.

“First, we’d like to thank you all for coming,” Esméralda began, tilting her head towards the table. “Phoebus and I couldn’t be grateful enough to you all for being here and having dinner with us.”

“Yes, we all know it’s a real chore to have to put up with us, but we hope the food makes up for it,” Phoebus joked. The cooks elbowed each other and Esméralda snickered. “Now, I know you want to get into this food, so we’ll make it quick.”

“First, a thank you to the Duke, of…” Esméralda looked at him.

“Albret,” Phoebus supplied.

“The Duke of Albret, who couldn’t be here tonight―not that we could invite him, for fear of him finding out what Phoebus _really_ used his generous donation for―”

The table guffawed and Phoebus looked mock offended. “What was I supposed to do, say no to a man who had consumed a near _barrel_ of Italian wine?”

Esméralda laughed, but Phoebus noticed Delia’s look of scandal and quickly veered the conversation away. “Uh, but anyway, another thank you to our builders! We truly could not be here without you!”

The table congratulated the group, who looked pleased, and Esméralda finished the toast. “Finally, to anyone we’ve forgotten, we still give you our gratitude; and may this house see many more of you again!”

The guests raised their glasses and drank; then quickly doled out the dishes. The food was a fascinating mix of French and Romani―Phoebus recognized old favorites such as _soupe à l’oignon,_ _piperade,_ and _flamiche,_ but had to have Esméralda point out _ardei umpluţi,_ a sort of delicious stuffed pepper, a yellow porridge called _mămăliga,_ and the suspicious-looking _pirogo,_ which actually turned out to be quite tasty.

To Delia’s credit, she _had_ tried a Romani option, but had politely put it aside and continued eating her _soupe à l’oignon,_ glancing up every so often. She had been trying to catch Phoebus’ eye all throughout the dinner, which he had been steadily avoiding. Unfortunately, at the end of the dinner, Phoebus had been laughing quietly at Delia’s expression upon eating a large spoonful of a heavily spiced dish, and she had finally made eye contact with him and motioned to the side. Phoebus sighed.

“Please excuse my brother and I for a moment,” Delia got up, sniffing and trying to smile at Esméralda. “Phoebus, would you join me?”

As the guests began trickling out, she dragged him over to the side hall, where it was vacant of any people, and immediately dropped the pained smile. “Phoebus, would you like to explain what I heard from Esméralda earlier? You’re _housing_ gypsies?”

“Don’t call them that,” Phoebus said sharply. “And not that it’s any of _your_ business, but the Captain of the Guard has funds available to him for public projects. I’ve checked with a superior, and he says the Romani―”

“This is unheard of,” Delia pinched her nose, exasperated. “I thought living with Esméralda was going to be bad enough, but now―”

“Bad enough?” Phoebus scowled. “Whose side are you on?”

“ _I_ don’t have anything against gy―against _them,_ ” Delia insisted, “But you can’t _imagine_ the scandal it would cause if it got out that a _de Châteaupers_ ―”

“I don’t care, Delia!” Phoebus exclaimed angrily. “Let them know the truth!”

“Since when you are such an advocate for truth? Just today you told me to take my jewelry off because you hadn’t wanted Esméralda to know her family-in-law hates her,” Delia snapped. “How can you want Mother and Father to know Esméralda, but Esméralda to not know _them?_ ”

Phoebus crossed his arms. She was right, and he hated it. “Well, what do you expect me to do? I’m not dropping this project.”

Delia looked satisfied. “I’ve been making a plan. Nobody _has_ to know you’re doing… this. Listen.”

Phoebus remained silent.

“At tea today, my friend mentioned a cousin―I believe her name is Collette―who isn’t married. She’s _our age,_ and her family has ties in the Royal Navy and sailing industry,” Delia emphasized, seeming to imply something.

“What?” Phoebus asked suspiciously.

“Marry Collette!”

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m not finished,” Delia said impatiently, “Marry Collette, and you get the inheritance you need for your project, plus extra to pay officials off. Mother and Father will be pleased and they’ll allow you to come back. You can even continue your relationship with Esméralda, for all I care!”

“Absolutely not,” Phoebus said, horrified. He looked back at Esméralda, who was ushering the last guest out brightly. “Delia, how could you even suggest such a thing?”

“It’s the only way to make sure you can come back to the family!” Delia insisted. “If you want to throw away your chances with Mother and Father again, be my guest, but I’m trying to _help_ you.”

Phoebus glared at her. “If how you think of Esméralda is as some―some _concubine_ ―then you are free to leave.”

“Excuse me?” Delia’s mouth dropped.

“You’ve overstayed your welcome. You will treat Esméralda with respect if you stay in her house.”

“ _Her_ house? It’s―” Delia started, but Esméralda had walked over, smiling cordially. Her smile dropped somewhat when she saw the looks on their faces.

“Did I walk in on something?”

Phoebus could see Esméralda scrutinizing him and quickly tried to rearrange his expression. “Delia was just leaving,” he said hastily. “I was ushering her out.”

“I see,” Esméralda said uncertainly, “Well, Delia, I apologize that we seemed to have so little time together. We must see each other soon.”

Delia looked pained. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

With a brief goodbye embrace, Delia set out to leave, Phoebus and Esméralda lingering behind her, and quickly stopped in the doorway, looking tense.

“Phoebus, someone is here. I believe it’s your… friend?”

* * *

Phoebus put down his quill, letting his cramped hand take a well-deserved break, and thought over the next events.

As if the night could not be any more dramatized, Quasi had arrived. Delia had been told about him, of course; he had been making more and more appearances in Phoebus’ letters to her, and after she had left, Phoebus had been relieved. He hadn’t gotten time alone with Esméralda all day, but simply reclining on the couch with her and Quasimodo made him feel that much more relaxed.

And then Quasi had told him that _Hilde_ and _Jean_ had offered to court him, and that relaxation had swiftly dropped away, followed by confusion, curiosity, and… embarrassment, which Phoebus didn’t quite know why he was feeling.

Quasi had mentioned that the two architects had wanted to court him at the same _time,_ which Phoebus had never heard of before. It set his mind on a completely new track, and Phoebus found that his mind kept drifting back to it.

He had known, of course, that the both of them had been interested in Quasi―he and Esméralda had known from the moment Hilde and Jean had both kissed Quasi on the cheek, fawning over him the entire time. But the way they seemed content with _both_ courting Quasimodo was completely alien. Were there other arrangements like this, and Phoebus simply hadn’t noticed?

Thinking about it harder, Phoebus could see the appeal. It seemed similar to simply courting your best friends. And after all, wasn’t your partner supposed to be your greatest ally? Phoebus knew for _sure_ that Esméralda was one of his best friends, Quasi evidently being the other.

Phoebus, shaking out the remnants of the cramp in his hand, concluded his scribblings. He was far too tired to write down _all_ of his musings on three-person-romances―and it was a subject he’d surely lose interest in later. He blew out the candle, leaving a thin, curling stream of smoke behind, and folded the papers back up, putting them back into their place.

Phoebus crept back downstairs to find everything as he had left it―Quasi and Esméralda still sprawled over the couch, snoring softly, and even Djali had snuck downstairs at some point to doze near them. Smiling contentedly, Phoebus settled into the cushions beside them, yawned, and drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing to keep in mind is that most of this chapter is technically a flashback taking place around three in the morning, so next chapter we’ll be hearing about Quasi’s first day back at work, taking place hours later, which should be a lot of fun.  
> Also, I’ve hinted at it briefly before, but Phoebus and Esméralda’s new house is actually Clopin’s old house, where he had lived with Henrietta Mason (the French woman he’d fallen in love with). It’s a parallel that I enjoy but won’t bother you too much with, outside of these notes.


	9. Chapter 9

Quasi had never wanted to skip work so much as he had that day.

He stood in front of the cathedral doors, dragging his feet, as people bustled behind him. He’d never missed a day of work yet; what was left there to do, anyway? Gilet would surely forgive him, due to the… circumstances.

All right, that was a lie. Gilet’s life was his work, and he gave little mind to those who did not feel the same. He would surely expect him to come, and so would any reasonable employer.

Quasi took a deep breath, steadying himself, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Hilde and Jean stood behind him, each trying to maintain an anxious smile.

“Hello, Quasi,” Hilde greeted, looking at Jean quickly. “How… was your morning?”

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Jean said quickly before Quasi could answer, wringing his satchel. “Lots of, ah, sun. Lots of it about.”

Quasi pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh. He was no longer nervous about Hilde and Jean―they still clearly wanted to be friends with him, however anxious they were about last night. It was endearing, and Quasi appreciated their greeting.

“Anyway, we were just about to head in,” Hilde said hastily, “But, of course, you are, too…?”

“Last I checked, Gilet hadn’t dismissed me,” Quasi said playfully. “Also, Hilde, Jean―”

“Yes?” they said in unison.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said gently. “It’s okay. About last night.”

The architects relaxed somewhat, although Jean still looked like one thing was bothering him. “Good. Good to hear. But… of Phoebus and Esméralda, they bear no ill will towards us?”

Quasi swallowed, thinking back to his friends’ rather dramatic reactions last night. In truth, he knew, his friends did not like Jean and Hilde at all, but here they were, and looking so nervous…

“They’ve forgiven you,” Quasi smiled, then realized something. “Oh! And―I should tell you―Phoebus and Esméralda aren’t, uh, courting me.”

Hilde and Jean looked at each other confusedly, exchanging an odd flurry of glances, then both turned back to Quasi. “… Are you sure?”

Something fluttered in Quasi’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Well, they just seem very…” Hilde pursed her lips.

“Jealous,” Jean finished for her. “And they’re always touching you. Like your shoulders, your hands…”

“We thought it over, last night,” Hilde explained, “We thought we had missed all their signals.”

“They’re not _always_ touching me,” Quasi said, with an embarrassed laugh, his mind reeling. Hilde and Jean shared another look, one that was tinged with exasperation.

“Well, we’re not going to try and convince you of it,” Hilde said, a little haughtily, “but if you care to know, we’re always open.”

She stepped inside the cathedral and began ascending the stairs; Jean hung back with a surprised Quasi.

“She took it hard, last night,” Jean whispered to him, “she’s just a little upset.”

“I’m sorry,” Quasi said awkwardly, glancing up at Hilde, who was at the top of the stairs by now, “Is there anything…?”

Jean raised a hand, perhaps to pat him on the shoulder, but seemed to think better of it and lowered it. “Not at the moment. But she’ll feel better soon.” He gave Quasi an encouraging smile.

Quasi nodded, remembering how hurt he had been when seeing Esméralda with Phoebus all those months ago. Those feelings, had, of course, left, or perhaps had just evolved―but no matter. As long as he, Hilde, and Jean could be friends again, it was worth it.

The three joined Gilet at the top of the stairs and headed into the office. As they gathered around the table, it became clear that the day was going to be long―they had finished their restoration of the cathedral completely, but Gilet needed to copy down everything they had done for Notre Dame’s archives. The lengthy list included their budget, tools, wages, time, and everything else Gilet could think of.

Hilde was questioned first, and Quasi found himself closer and closer to sleeping than he had ever been in a meeting. His eyes drooped dangerously, and as his gaze swept over the room, he found Jean being nudged awake several times. Gilet either didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps not to care; but Hilde caught his eye and motioned to Jean, grinning.

“Oh―sorry, what?”

“I asked if you’d happened to catch the amount that you’d taken for your lunch out of the wages for the day,” Gilet said patiently, scribbling away.

Jean blinked his eyes open, having been half-listening. “Gilet, I don’t think that you really need to put that down, do you? I mean, meals don’t count at all in this, and we all buy lunch with our wages from yesterday.”

“Are you sure?” For the first time, Gilet looked genuinely nervous as he paged through the notes he’d taken. “I don’t want to leave anything out.”

“You’re the best archivist we know,” Quasi reassured him. “And we don’t want you to have to do a lot of useless math.”

Gilet stared down at his paper. The three could practically see his mind whirring as he came to a conclusion. “… All right. I’ll move on.” He cleared his throat. “Now. Hilde. How did you divide up the DelCroixs’ donations?”

As Hilde shuffled through her own notes and Jean fell back asleep, Quasi sat back, his mind drifting.

He had barely been able to stop thinking about last night since he had arrived… or, since he had bid Phoebus and Esméralda farewell that morning. With a jolt, he realized―that picture had been the very scene he’d imagined with Jean and Hilde at dinner.

Quasi _had_ woken with them, albeit on their couch, but with them nonetheless. It wasn’t Hilde’s manor or Jean’s crowded family’s house, neither did they have imported tea or _pan con tomate,_ but Phoebus’ and Esméralda’s house had something special all their own. They had Djali, and _idli_ and toast, and… 

Quasi’s stomach sank as he caught sight of the box in the corner. It contained the last possessions of Frollo, and all of a sudden, he could almost hear the Judge’s voice in his head.

What Hilde and Jean were doing… it was completely against everything the Bible had said. Having multiple wives―or, he supposed, partners―was condemned by the Father, and Quasimodo had never even read _anything_ about a man having a romantic relationship with another. He had heard, of course―rumors, from time to time, which were whispered among the churchgoers―but the closest the Bible had come to mentioning it was the story of David and Jonathan, and they did not seem to have been punished.

The dilemma was that Hilde and Jean were sweet and loving, and they seemed to break the Scriptures, and God did not seem to be angry at them.

Quasi thought over it again. In the Bible, having multiple partners seemed to be only for the benefit of one―the man, so he had read―while what Hilde and Jean had invited Quasi into seemed to be for the benefit of all. They were a far cry from the blasphemous harems he had heard in sermons, and it was to his comfort that _their_ type of relationship was not doomed to burn.

It reassured him greatly, and with this, his mind wandered over to Phoebus and Esméralda. On the slim chance Hilde and Jean were right―and it surprised him greatly that he was even considering it―something like an arrangement with them would be the same. Phoebus and Esméralda, essentially, acted no different than Hilde and Jean. And a relationship with them could not be more sinful than anything else.

But even then… Frollo had strictly told him that someone like _him_ would never be loved by anyone.

Quasi knew a day, years ago, when this message had been struck into him firmly.

If he remembered correctly, he had been sixteen, and a villager―man or woman, he was unable to tell, for they had worn a mantle―had, shockingly, looked up at his tower, caught his eye, and waved.

Quasi had not known much about them. In fact, the only thing he was really able to discern was their age―about his own. He had spent the day in a sort of haze, wondering everything about them, from their name to their likings, and had painted a figure of the person lovingly.

He had put much care into the doll, and it had been one of his best: curly brown hair, a sweeping brown cloak, and an astonished smile on its face. He had worked on it all day, and by the time it grew dark, the figure had been finished. The gargoyles had crowded around it, oohing and ahhing, and Quasi had been beside himself with pride.

But Frollo was due that evening, and soon, upon seeing the look in Quasi’s eyes, he had very sharply dashed his daydreams with fire and brimstone, and had left him that night with a broken figurine and tears in his eyes.

Quasi had then spent the night flipping fearfully through the Bible’s pages, with Hugo, Victor, and Laverne presiding anxiously over him. After a few hours of reading the Latin haltingly, he had come upon a realization in the form of John, 9:2.

_And his disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him.”_

The works of God… Quasimodo had never before considered that his appearance had been the result of anything _but_ sin. And if he was not the result of sin, but created by God, like everyone else, could he not, too, love and be loved?

He had repeated these musings to the gargoyles, who had eagerly supported him. The broken figure had eventually been lost, but Quasi had never forgotten the spark of hope that night had ignited within him.

 

Quasi was sharply jerked out of his thoughts by Gilet, who had evidently moved on to him now that he was done with Hilde and Jean.

“And Quasimodo, could you relay the charges from Master Neri for the windows?”

“Ah―oh, yes,” Quasi said awkwardly, fumbling through his own receipts, attempting to get his mind back on track.

As Gilet questioned him again and again, queries ranging from stonemasons to spinsters, Quasi’s mind thankfully returned to order. Gilet’s notes were filled with calculations, noting everything short of every breath the workers had taken in his presence. They even included the brief period Phoebus had been employed with them, although his wages had already been paid, and there were no outstanding debts.

Finally, Gilet concluded, and Hilde, Jean, and Quasimodo were allowed to heave a sigh of relief. Jean was awoken from his stupor, and as the three prepared to head out for one of the final times, Gilet called out to Quasi.

“Quasimodo, would you get the book of records for me?”

Quasi looked to the box in the corner, where the book had been kept for the time being, and then stopped, looking distracted. “Haven’t you been writing in it?”

Gilet, looking down at the amassed papers in front of him, chuckled. “No, these are only my notes. I’m transcribing all these _into_ the records. Which, speaking of…”

Thinking Gilet was possibly more devoted to his job than anyone he had known, Quasi rummaged in the box until he came up with it: a rather handsome leather-bound book with gold letters, reading _Litterae Lutetiae Ecclesiae, de 1163 ― nunc._

“Oh! Found it,” Quasi called, about to turn back, and then he froze.

Directly underneath the heavy tome was a smaller book, also leather-bound. It was unmarked, but Quasi knew it very well―he had seen Frollo writing in it many times. The book was a journal of sorts, and evidently it hadn’t been thrown out with the rest of the Judge’s possessions quite yet.

“Quasi?” Hilde and Jean were waiting by the door.

“Uh―yes, coming,” he called. Clutching the record book, he gave one last look to the journal, frowned, and impulsively grabbed it, stuffing it in his bag.

* * *

 “So we would have to buy the land and register as landlords, and that way we would be able to contract, build houses. Then we could sort of ‘rent’ it out to the community―”

“Rent wouldn’t be much, only a _sou,_ ” Phoebus interjected.

“And we would be able to house quite a few without anyone else getting involved,” Esméralda continued, counting off on her fingers.

Quasi frowned, leaning against a chair. “Is _everyone_ going to live there?”

“Well… no,” Phoebus conceded. “That’s what we were thinking, too. Right now I’ve been talking with Frederic, trying to find others around Paris who would rent out their land. I don’t think _finding_ them is going to be too hard, but I think getting the architects and people who’ll actually _build_ everything is going to be the difficult part…” He paced around the kitchen, arms swinging.

“We were hoping _you_ could help us build new spaces for them. We haven’t gotten all of it worked out yet, we still have to save up to buy a fair amount of land, but it’s a start,” Esméralda offered. Her hand rubbed anxiously along a nearby goblet.

Quasi thought it over. The plan to house the Romani seemed fairly straightforward, but French law could be tricky to navigate, especially considering their clear prejudice. Although, as he devoted a bit more time to it, he was fairly confident that it could work―Phoebus’ prestige meant he could slip by the law where others could not, and even so, the process was entirely legal.

Quasi pushed off of the chair, standing fully. “I’ll do it,” he grinned.

Gratitude washed over Esméralda’s face, and she gave him a warm hug. “ _Thank_ you, Quasi.”

Phoebus took his hand, squeezing it briefly. “Really, we couldn’t thank you enough. Now―where are we going to find other architects?”

* * *

 Phoebus and Esméralda stared at them openly.

“I’m Jean,” Jean said, clearly thinking they had forgotten his name, “and this is Hilde and Gilet.”

“I know who you are,” Phoebus said impatiently, casting a side look at Esméralda and trying to avoid Jean’s gaze. “Quasi, you’re… _sure_ these are the only people who can help?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Quasi gave him a sharp look, warning Phoebus not to say anything further, “They’re very talented, and they’ve already agreed to lower their rates.”

His unspoken addition was also that Quasi didn’t want to part with Jean and Hilde on awkward terms, and wanted a chance to put their friendship back on firm ground. If he saw them out again somewhere, and Quasi hadn’t spoken with them the night after they had attempted to court him, how awkward of a conversation would _that_ be?

And since Jean and Hilde were under the mistaken impression that Phoebus and Esméralda had forgiven them―although perhaps not anymore, considering their interactions now―they had been eager to help. Usually they were assigned projects by Gilet, who had contacts all over France, but since they had just completed Notre Dame, Gilet hadn’t started scouting yet.

Gilet, in fact, was standing casually by Hilde, either oblivious to or ignoring the tension in the air. He seemed less harried than usual, and Quasi suspected it stemmed from the conversation they’d had earlier, or perhaps it was the fact that he wasn’t expected to supervise this new project alone.

“You can join,” Esméralda said with a resigned finality. “Quasi, have you told them about the plan yet?”

“Of course. And they already have some ideas,” Quasi said excitedly, trying to coax Jean, Hilde, and Gilet to speak. “Right, guys?”

 

Eventually, the tension died down somewhat, and the group of six was able to settle down at the kitchen table, quietly planning. Quasi had sketched out some very brief blueprints while Phoebus and Esméralda had explained the plan to him before, and as he passed them around the table, new additions were added, crossed out, and commented upon by the rest.

Though Phoebus and Esméralda had no knowledge of architecture, they wasted no time in getting a good look at the plans, and didn’t hesitate to ask someone about what a certain line or circle meant. Quasi estimated that they were getting a secondhand education of their workers’ jargon just by looking at their papers―he’d asked Jean, Hilde, and Gilet to try and speak plainly, for Phoebus and Esméralda’s sake, as he knew the struggles of attempting to understand it. Even when he had begun working with them, the slang took some getting used to.

The plan evolved until it was decided that, before drafting any workers, Jean would lead the rest in deciding whether the Court of Miracles was beyond repair. Esméralda was still attached to it, and Quasi knew she had harbored hopes that the Romani would still be able to live there. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping she wouldn’t be disappointed―but at the same time, sleeping in an underground lair was no way to live, either. It was a troubling mix.

After checking the Court, if it was habitable, Gilet would try and draft his usual workers, who would be supplemented with Romani workers as well. Phoebus had been working to find the Romani higher-paying jobs through the contacts he’d made while searching for employment, and while manual labor wasn’t the glamorous careers he had imagined for them, it certainly paid more reliably than performing.

If it was not in liveable condition, Gilet would still notify his workers, but they would have to wait until Phoebus and Esméralda were able to buy land, or until Frederic could find someone willing to rent.

“I have a friend that knows most of the Romani here. He can help us contract some of them,” Esméralda said, referring to Clopin, “So, before drafting our workers, we should go and see him; just to get us all acquainted.”

“Good; we should be able to compile our list of builders, then,” Gilet said, studying his list of addresses. “Shall we go?”

* * *

 As they approached the wagon, Quasi looked at it with interest. Was _this_ where Clopin lived?

If so, it was beautiful, despite its clear age. Thin, faded streaks of gold paint shone against the flaking red paint, trailing along the wooden siding. They eventually drew to the swing doors, where the paint had worn away along the handles, which Esméralda knocked upon.

“It’s Esméralda, I have some friends with me. We’re here to discuss the housing project?” Esméralda paused at the doors. Although they were unlocked, and she was technically able to undo them, but the curtains were still drawn behind the doors, and it was quite clear that it would be extremely rude to enter without notice.

“Come in,” Clopin called. Quasi glanced back and saw Gilet, who looked confused, as though he were trying to recognize something. Hilde and Jean looked curious, examining the wagon, and Phoebus was as casual as ever, leaning against Quasi.

Esméralda pushed open the doors and drew aside the curtain, then stepped inside with the rest of the group. Quasi looked around curiously. The corner nearest them was taken up by an extremely messy desk and Clopin, who was writing away. Otherwise the interior was rather small, holding only a bed, a pantry, and a small stand. The furniture was ornately decorated, something he wouldn’t have expected from Clopin’s otherwise-plain manner of dress.

Looking behind to follow a small mural’s progress, Quasi turned just in time to see Gilet rush past him to the desk.

“ _Clopin?_ I didn’t know you were working on this project!” Gilet said delightedly, dropping his papers on the desk. “I’ve never been to your caravan before!”

Clopin looked up, surprised, and bounded off his chair. “Gilet! You rascal, I haven’t seen you in months! How are you?”

Gilet laughed as Clopin ruffled his hair, and tried in vain to restore it. He smacked away Clopin’s hand, still grinning. “Good, no thanks to you. I just finished restoring Notre Dame with these three.”

Quasi waved while Jean and Hilde ducked their heads, caught staring. He couldn’t blame them―he’d never seen Gilet this excited before. He knew Jean and Hilde had seen Gilet lively before, and were unsuccessfully attempting to do so again, but he had mostly chalked up Gilet’s demeanor to his devotion to work.

“And it is as beautiful as before,” Clopin put a hand over his heart. “You have done the cathedral proud.”

“Clopin, you… _know_ him?” Esméralda finally mustered, surprised.

Clopin turned towards her, grinning, and smoothed his hair back. “Of course! Since he was but a babe.”

“I was _twenty,_ ” Gilet rolled his eyes, “and yes, I met him… about five or six years ago, I think? I worked on his old house; it was my first independently-directed project. Nothing important, of course, only a few fix-ups.”

“We became friends during it,” Clopin explained. “He’s one of the finest architects I’ve ever met.”

“I’m the _only_ architect you’ve ever met,” Gilet raised his eyebrows, and Clopin laughed. “But that’s about to change. This is Hilde and Jean; and you must know Quasimodo.”

“Of _course_ I know Quasimodo,” Clopin said, amused, and Quasi reddened slightly, “but you haven’t yet told me what you’re doing for this project. Along with your esteemed friends, that is.”

“I’m getting together my workers; you’re supposed to have a couple contacts I can add to that list,” Gilet slid his papers over to Clopin. “Care to add them? We can―”

“Wait―before we start working, can we check the Court of Miracles?” Esméralda said desperately, trying to get things back on track. “Clopin, I know you think it’s beyond repair, but―”

“It _is_ beyond repair,” Clopin said seriously, “You saw what Frollo and his men did to it.”

Esméralda looked hurt, and Phoebus touched her shoulder lightly. “Can we… just _try_ to visit it? Jean’s offered to look at the structure already, I just want to know if there’s any way we can recover it.”

Quasi knew Clopin held the Court of Miracles as close to his heart as Esméralda did, and eventually, it seemed, her pleading look wore him down.

Clopin sighed, and seemed to steel himself. “All right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished Quasimodo’s first arc (completing the cathedral), and have officially kicked off a few more! I’m so excited to write these next ones, I think you all are going to like them! Also, if you are wondering, the title of the records book in English is “Letters of the Paris Church, from 1163 to the present.” The title is in Classical Latin, which makes it hard for Google to translate it accurately.  
> I am also modeling Clopin’s caravan after something like [this](https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/red-gypsy-wagon-153666599).


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